CLARK 


The  Quakeress 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


Out  of  the  Hurly  Burly  (1874) 

With  400  illustrations  by  A.  B.  Frost.  W.  L. 
Shepherd  and  Fred  B.  Schell. 

Price  $1.25 

Nearly  one  million  copies  of  this  book  have  been  sold. 


Captain  Bluitt  (1901) 

With  illustrations  by  John  Henderson  Betts 
Price  $1.50 


In  Happy  Hollow  (1903) 

Profusely  illustrated  by  Herman  Rountree  and 
Clare  L.  Dwiggins. 

Price  $1.25 


Abby  Woolford. 


TliEQuAKERESS 


A   TeUe 

By  Charles  HeberCiark 


With   IHustrations  in   Color   by 

George  Gifobs 


The  John  C  Winston  Co 

Philadelphia 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,    1905,  BY 

CHARLES  HEBER  CLARK, 
All  rights  reserved. 

ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS*  HALL,  LONDON. 


Published,  April,  1905. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

RICHARD  CAMPION 

OF  PHILADELPHIA 

In  remembrance  of  many  acts  of 
sincere  friendship 


2135308 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.     IN  A  GARDEN 5 

II.     THE  SOUTHERNERS 20 

III.  FIRST-DAY  AT  PLYMOUTH  MEETING 38 

IV.  AT  THE  GREY  HOUSE 59 

V.     BY  THE  GREAT  SPRING 75 

VI.     THE  FEAST  OF  TABERNACLES 98 

VII.     IN  THE  CHURCH 128 

VIII.  GEORGE  FOTHERLY  TRIES  His  FATE....  147 

IX.     THE  OTHER  WOMAN 167 

X.     DOLLY  HARLEY  GOES  HOME 193 

XI.     THE  SASSAFRAS  PLANTATION 207 

XII.     DAYS  AT  SASSAFRAS  230 

XIII.  WITH  THE  WORLD'S  PEOPLE 245 

XIV.  ABBY  RETURNS  TO  CONNOCK 264 

XV.     AT  BAY 278 

XVI.     INTO  THE  GULF 292 

XVII.  ISAAC    WOOLFORD    GOES    INTO    A     FAR 

COUNTRY    312 


Contents. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.     THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE 327 

XIX.     "WITH  CONFUSED  NOISE  AND  GARMENTS 

ROLLED  IN  BLOOD" 342 

XX.     A  NEW  MASTER  FOR  THE  GREY  HOUSE.  .  .   362 
XXI.     "FAREWELL,  A  LONG  FAREWELL!" 380 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGB 

ABBY  WOOLFORD    Frontispiece. 

Drawn  in  Color  by  George  Gibbs. 

"  FOR    MANY     MINUTES      THE     TWO     SAT    THUS     AND 

WORSHIPPED  " 8 

Drawn  in  Color  bv  George  Gibbs. 

PLYMOUTH  MEETING  HOUSE 48 

THE    GREY    HOUSE,    THE    PARSONAGE    AND    THE 

CHURCH 68 

'  SHE  FELL  UPON  THE  CUSHIONED  SEAT  "    140 

Drawn  in  Color  by  George  Gibbs. 

"SHE    LEAPED    INTO    THE    SPACE    BETWEEN  THE 
ANTAGONISTS  "  262 

Drawn  in  Color  by  George  Gibbs. 

THE  GULF   GAP   182 

THE  GULF  CHURCH 292 


THE  QUAKERESS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
In  a  Garden. 

THE  main  street  of  Connock  dips  sharply  from  the 
crest  of  the  hill  towards  the  river,  and  when  it  has  run 
downward  between  the  high  levels  on  which  a  few 
dwelling-houses  stand  and  passed  further  on  the  hun- 
dred or  more  shops  that  border  it,  the  road  sweeps 
across  the  canal  and  the  river,  and  then  out,  a  ribbon 
of  white  dust,  among  the  Merion  hills. 

On  a  First-day  morning  in  Sixth  month  of  the  year 
1 86 1  George  Fotherly  drove  in  his  square  carriage 
with  his  stout  bay  horse  along  the  road  from  his  farm 
amid  the  hills  and  up  the  steep  incline  of  the  street. 

It  was  near  to  the  hour  of  service  in  the  Episcopal 
Church,  and  the  pavements  were  thronged  with  well- 
dressed  people  walking  leisurely  to  the  sanctuary,  when 
George  stopped  his  horse  at  the  grey  double  house  just 
at  the  top  of  the  first  level  of  the  hill  to  the  right — the 
house  separated  from  the  church  by  the  space  of  its 
own  garden  and  that  of  the  parsonage. 

From  the  window  of  the  living-room  of  the  house  a 
young  girl  saw  him,  and  when  he  had  tied  his  horse 
to  the  ijon  post  by  the  curb,  she  opened  the  front  door 

(5) 


The  Quakeress. 


and  came  upon  the  porch  to  greet  him  with  a  smile 
and  an  extended  hand. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  frock  of  grey  India  silk,  with 
a  white  linen  collar  turned  over  it  and  with  no  jewel  at 
her  throat.  Unadorned  with  lace  or  other  finery,  the 
dress  shaped  itself  to  her  slender  form  and  fell  in  ample 
folds  from  her  waist.  Her  soft,  brown  hair  was  drawn 
smoothly  from  her  forehead  without  a  fluff  or  a  curl 
that  had  not  resisted  her  effort  to  restrain  its  wilfulness, 
and  beneath  the  rich  simplicity  of  her  hair  was  a  face 
of  delicate  beauty. 

Out  of  her  blue-grey  eyes  looked  gentleness  and 
goodness,  and  the  flush  of  health  was  upon  her  cheeks. 
The  fine  straight  little  nose,  the  slightly  rounded  firm 
chin,  the  low  wide  forehead  and  the  mouth  just  large 
enough  for  beauty,  with  lips  that  escaped  both  fullness 
and  thinness,  helped  to  give  to  her  conspicuous  loveli- 
ness. She  was  a  girl  whom  to  see  for  the  first  time 
was  to  have  a  strong  impression  of  celestial  purity. 

The  man  who  hurried  up  the  steps,  through  the  iron 
gate  and  along  the  brief  paved  way  to  the  porch  where 
the  girl  stood  awaiting  him,  was  a  burly  fellow.  Tall, 
broad-shouldered,  masterful  in  form  and  bearing,  with 
a  strong,  rough  face,  close-shaven  and  browned  by  the 
sun,  with  a  firm,  resolute  chin  and  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  have  depth  in  them,  he  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  slight  figure  and  the  delicate  features  of  the 
girl  who  clasped  his  hand. 

They  stood  for  a  moment,  he  upon  the  step  just  lower 
than  the  level  of  the  porch-floor  that  he  might  speak  to 
her  face-to-face. 

"Is  thee  not  ready,  Abby?"  he  asked  with  a  note 
of  surprise  in  his  voice  when  he  saw  that  she  did  not 
wear  her  bonnet. 


In  -a  Garden. 


It  was  his  practice  to  stop  for  her  each  First-day 
morning  and  drive  her  over  to  the  Plymouth  Meeting, 
two  miles  away,  while  her  father  and  mother  went 
together  in  another  vehicle. 

"I  am  not  going  to  meeting  to-day,  George,"  she 
said. 

"Not  going !     What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"Father  is  away  from  home,"  she  murmured,  "and 
mother  is  not  so  well  that  I  can  be  absent  all  the  morn- 
ing." 

George,  looking  disappointed  and  serious,  came  upon 
the  porch  and  sat  upon  a  chair,  while  Abby  seated  her- 
self near  to  him. 

"But  thee  can  go  alone,"  she  said. 

"Not  without  thee,  Abby,"  he  answered,  and  she 
seemed  to  have  expected  him  to  say  so.  Plainly  she 
was  not  displeased. 

When  they  had  talked  for  a  while  about  her  mother 
and  about  other  subjects,  Abby  said  to  him : 

"We  may  have  a  meeting  of  our  own,  George." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "it  will  be  better." 

George  parted  from  her  to  take  his  horse  around  to 
the  stable,  while  she  re-entered  the  house.  They  met 
again  upon  the  porch. 

"Shall  we  have  the  meeting  with  mother?"  asked 
Abby. 

George  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  yielding 
to  an  impulse  not  altogether  free  from  selfishness,  he 
said : 

"The  garden  will  be  very  pleasant,  Abby." 

"Let  us  go  into  the  garden  then,"  said  the  girl  with 
a  smile. 

Together  they  descended  the  porch-steps  and  strolled 


8  The  Quakeress. 


along  the  gravelled  path,  around  the  north  corner  of 
the  house  and  over  the  lawn  to  where  the  mighty  apple- 
tree,  widespreading  its  branches,  drooped  them  down- 
ward like  a  canopy.  Beneath,  by  the  trunk  of  the  tree, 
was  a  slatted  bench  whereon  the  young  man  sat,  wear- 
ing his  broad  hat  and  holding  out  his  hand  for  his 
companion. 

Around  them  the  flowers  bloomed,  the  grass  was  soft 
to  the  tread  and  pleasant  to  the  eye,  the  cherry  trees 
bore  ripening  fruit  among  the  green  leaves,  the  grape 
vines  near  by  them  on  the  left  hand  thrust  out  their 
tendrils  to  the  trellis  that  upbore  them,  and  the  soft 
wind  blew  in  from  the  southwest  across  the  lawn,  flut- 
tering the  leaves  and  warm  with  the  promise  of  the 
summer-time.  Beyond  the  screen  of  rose-bushes  which 
partly  shut  away  the  street,  the  last  stragglers  hurried 
to  the  church,  and  when  Abby  sat  upon  the  bench  the 
two  Friends  were  alone.  Before  them  was  the  stretch 
of  grass  dotted  by  shrubs  and  ending  at  the  southern 
fence  of  the  garden ;  beyond,  far  away  across  the  roofs 
of  the  town,  uplifting  from  the  deep  valley  of  the  inter- 
vening river,  was  the  dark  verdure  of  the  great  hills, 
covered  by  forest-trees. 

As  they  composed  themselves  for  worship,  Mrs.  Pon- 
der, the  minister's  wife,  whose  rule  was  to  be  late  for 
church  and  late  for  everything,  came  hastily  out  upon 
the  porch  of  the  parsonage.  Looking  over  the  hedge 
and  around  the  lilac  bush,  she  saw  them  sitting  there, 
and,  as  she  forced  her  fingers  into  her  glove  she  said : 

"Deliberately  shutting  themselves  out  from  the 
means  of  grace!" 

Then,  as  she  went  down  the  steps  and  along  the 
path  to  the  side-door  of  the  church,  she  added : 


"  For  many  minutes  the  two  sat  and  worshipped." 


In  a  Garden. 


"It  is  a  shame  for  that  rough,  big  man  to  have  that 
darling  girl!" 

But  those  who  knew  them  well  would  not  have 
thought  ill  of  such  a  union.  The  strong,  true  man  and 
the  tender,  pure  woman  are  Nature's  perfect  material 
for  the  fusion  of  soul  and  body  in  the  wedlock  which 
moves  through  eternity  to  closer  and  closer  union. 

This  man  and  this  woman  were  well-born  in  the 
high  sense  of  that  phrase.  Behind  them  were  two  cen- 
turies of  clean  physical  living  and  spiritual  victory. 
Both  had  a  precious  heritage  of  impulse  to  lofty  things 
given  by  a  long  line  of  ancestors  who  were  steadfast 
to  righteousness.  The  true  Quaker  prepares  the  ruddy 
cheek  and  the  pure  soul  for  his  children's  great  grand- 
children, and  the  forefathers  of  these  two  had  been 
faithful. 

Thus  in  the  glory  of  the  summer  morning  these  heirs 
of  the  conquerors  together  sought  the  illumination  of 
that  Presence  which  had  brought  light  and  blessing  to 
the  spirits  of  their  fathers. 

A  spiritual  nature  strengthened  by  spiritual  exer- 
cise had  given  to  the  man  the  power  of  almost  com- 
plete abstraction.  When  he  closed  his  eyes  as  he  sat 
with  Abby  beneath  the  tree  the  natural  world  was  gone. 
There  was  in  his  soul,  it  is  true,  a  subtle  sense  of  the 
woman's  presence,  but  he  was  not  conscious  of  it ;  and 
if  he  had  perceived  it  he  would  have  felt  that  it  was  a 
part  of  that  exalted  spirituality  into  which  he  had 
entered.  He  worshiped,  but  the  object  of  his  worship 
was  Divine  Love,  and  what  was  the  sentiment  with 
which  he  regarded  Abby  but  an  emanation  of  that 
Love?  This  he  had  said  to  himself  more  than  once. 
He  did  not  say  it  now  or  think  it.  Simply  he  flung 


The  Quakeress. 


open  the  door  of  his  soul  and  sought  to  have  the  Divine 
Inflowing;  to  meet  God  there  in  that  hidden  chamber 
and  to  have  the  secret  place  made  holy  by  communion 
with  the  Most  High. 

And  so  Nature  vanished  from  his  sight  and  all  its 
sounds  were  hushed,  all  its  loveliness  was  hidden,  while 
he  was  lifted  up  to  fellowship  with  Him  whose  love 
has  made  all  things  beautiful. 

But  for  Abby  there  was  a  less  exclusive  sense  of  the 
Spiritual  Presence.  Through  her  shut  eyelids  she  could 
not  help  seeing  the  glow  of  the  sunshine.  She  heard 
the  note  of  the  robins  that  ran  upon  the  grass,  the  soft 
quaver  of  the  cuckoo  in  the  neighboring  tree,  the  twit- 
ter of  the  sparrows  that  rustled  about  in  the  leafy  plant 
that  climbed  upon  and  covered  the  wall  of  the  house. 
She  was  enveloped  by  the  perfume  of  the  clustered  roses 
and  the  lilacs  and  she  felt  the  gentle  air  that  breathed 
upon  her  cheek. 

These  were  influences  that  affected  her  soul,  and, 
besides,  she  heard  faintly  from  the  window  of  the  dis- 
tant church  the  deep  droning  of  the  diapason  and  the 
strain  of  the  higher  music  that  seemed  like  the  hum- 
ming of  melodious  bees  ;  and  all  these  things  combined 
to  help  her  to  spiritual  exaltation. 

It  was  in  the  very  fibre  of  her  nature  to  find  in  the 
visible  things  that  tell  of  a  Divine  Maker  the  evidence 
of  His  presence  with  her;  and  perhaps  the  Spirit  does 
speak  to  some  souls  more  distinctly  through  these 
things,  even  while  He  has  His  own  secret  contact  with 
the  inner  nature.  To  Abby  the  faint,  sweet  strain  of 
distant  music  was  like  an  audible  fragrance  of  flowers. 

But,  alas  for  George  !  his  presence  gave  no  fervor  to 
the  flame  of  her  devotion. 


In  a  Garden. 


For  many  minutes  the  two  sat  there  and  worshiped 
while  the  Lord  was  in  His  holy  temple,  which  is  the 
soul  that  waits  for  Him;  and  so  they  both  had  peace. 

Now  and  then  from  the  railway  deep  down  in  the 
valley  upon  the  margin  of  the  river  there  came  the 
harsh  sound  of  the  steam  whistle  and  of  the  rush  and 
roar  of  the  train;  but,  save  for  this  and  the  panting 
of  a  distant  iron  furnace,  silence  was  upon  them,  until 
at  last  the  man  opened  his  eyes  and,  looking  as  if  he 
had  had  refreshing,  turned  to  Abby  and  clasped  her 
hand  to  end  the  period  of  worship. 

They  did  not  rise  for  a  time,  so  fair  was  the  scene 
when  they  looked  through  the  rifts  in  the  foliage  out 
upon  the  hills,  and  so  beautiful  the  lawn  before  them, 
dappled  by  the  glints  of  sunlight  that  filtered  through 
the  leaves.  When  they  had  sat  silent  for  a  few 
moments  George,  waving  his  hand  outward  toward  the 
hills,  said : 

'  'I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  whence 
cometh  my  help.'  I  think  of  that  often,  Abby,  when 
I  drive  among  the  shadows  in  the  clefts  of  them.  It 
is  a  lesson  not  to  look  for  strength  to  the  mean  things." 

"Yes,"  said  Abby,  who  perhaps  did  not  at  once 
sound  the  full  depth  of  that  allegory ;  and  as  she  spoke, 
the  sound  of  singing  came  to  them  half-muffled  from 
the  church,  and  Abby,  as  she  heard  it,  said  again : 

"And  that,  too,  is  beautiful,  George,  isn't  it?" 

"We  have  a  better  way,  I  think;  the  way  of  quiet- 
ness." 

"Yes,  George,"  said  Abby,  softly,  "but  their  way 
may  be  also  acceptable  to  Him.  If  the  singing  is  from 
the  heart,  surely  it  is  so.  'Let  everything  that  hath 
breath  praise  the  Lord.'  Thee  must  not  judge  thy 
brethren  harshly,  George." 


12 


Tke  Quakeress. 


"No,"  he  answered,  "I  would  not  do  that,  but  I  can- 
not understand.  The  way  of  the  Spirit  is  not  noisy. 
We  reach  Him  in  the  secret  chamber,  without  utter- 
ance." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  the  girl,  and  indeed  she  did  know 
it,  "but,  George,  while  there  is  a  beauty  of  holiness 
there  is  also  a  real  divine  beauty  of  the  blue  sky,  the 
green  hills,  the  sweet  grass  and  the  music  of  birds  and 
men." 

George  smiled  at  her  as  he  saw  her  face  become 
eager  with  the  force  of  her  feeling,  and  as  they  rose 
to  go  to  the  house  he  said  : 

"There  is  much  to  be  said  upon  thy  side  of  the  mat- 
ter, no  doubt,  but  if  thee  is  to  become  fond  of  church 
music,  Abby,  thee  must  take  care,  or  thee  will  drift 
away  from  Friends." 

When  they  had  lingered  among  the  roses  and  George 
had  plucked  a  posy  which  Abby  should  give  to  her 
mother,  the  two  went  into  the  house,  where  George 
greeted  Rachel  Woolford.  Then,  coming  out,  he 
brought  his  horse  to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  bidding 
farewell  to  Abby,  he  drove  away. 

She  went  to  the  corner  of  the  porch  behind  the  clem- 
atis that  climbed  high  upon  the  lattice,  and  as  she 
followed  him  with  her  eyes  while  he  passed  quickly 
down  the  street  homeward,  she  thought  of  him. 

In  the  seclusion  of  her  village  home,  in  her  village 
life,  mingling  chiefly  with  Friends,  this  man  had  been 
much  in  her  mind  and  in  her  company.  She  had 
known  him  always,  it  seemed  to  her.  Together  they 
had  learned  lessons  in  the  Friends'  school  at  Plymouth, 
and  she  had  seen  him  at  the  meetings  on  First-day, 
across  the  bare  benches,  ever  since  she  could  remember. 


In  a  Garden.  13 

Even  when  a  boy,  he  had  never  failed  to  come  to  speak 
to  her  under  the  sycamore  trees  after  meeting,  and 
when  he  had  grown  to  manhood  and  had  a  horse  of  his 
own,  he  began  the  practice  of  driving  her  to  meeting 
on  the  day  of  worship. 

Her  father  and  mother  sanctioned  this  companion- 
ship. Plainly,  also,  it  had  the  approval  of  the  watchful 
members  of  the  Meeting,  for  no  word  of  discourage- 
ment was  heard.  George  was  a  favorite  with  them. 
He  wore  the  plain  garments  in  simplicity;  his  speech 
and  his  conduct  were  those  of  a  consistent  Friend; 
and  sometimes  when  he  was  moved  to  exhortation  in 
the  meeting  on  First-day  he  had  power  that  gave 
to  Friends  fresh  assurance  of  the  purpose  of  the  Spirit 
to  choose  fitting  instruments  through  which  to  speak 
to  God's  people. 

What  could  be  better  than  that  this  strong  man 
among  the  children  of  the  Spirit  should  cherish  and 
espouse  this  lovely  girl,  a  very  Friend  of  Friends, 
whose  gentleness  and  reverence  and  sweet,  modest  be- 
havior gave  proof,  as  George's  preaching  did,  of  the 
complete  excellence  of  the  theories  and  the  methods 
of  the  Society? 

Abby  herself  could  not  have  told  just  when  the  first 
thought  came  to  her  of  George  as  her  lover.  She 
had  always  liked  him,  and  if  she  had  come  to  love  him 
enough  to  be  his  wife,  the  change  had  been  made  in- 
sensibly. He  had  said  no  word  of  love  to  her,  but 
he  had  acted  as  if  he  felt  sure  of  her  affection,  and 
she  knew  that  he  felt  sure  of  it,  and  she  did  not  venture 
really  to  question  if  she  herself  felt  sure  of  it. 

Love  for  one  whom  one  should  marry  seemed  to 
her  as  if  it  might  be  just  a  strong  liking  such  as  she 


The  Quakeress. 


had  felt  for  George  from  childhood.  She  was  fond 
of  being  with  him;  she  liked  his  talk;  in  her  gentle, 
quiet,  timid  life  the  forcefulness  of  his  character 
seemed  to  her  wonderful  and  admirable;  and  when 
George  had  been  called  upon  to  bear  testimony  in  the 
meetings  she  marveled  at  his  words  while  she  felt 
deep  reverence  for  the  man  through  whom  the  Divine 
power  condescended  to  speak  with  so  much  eloquence. 
If  this  feeling  of  hers  was  not  love,  what  is  love? 

Sometimes  as  she  peeped  out  into  the  great  world 
lying  beyond  the  range  of  her  experience  she  caught 
glimpses  of  something  different,  and  now  and  then  she 
wondered  if  there  were  not  indeed  for  people  who 
are  to  marry  a  love  more  uplifting  and  glorious.  In 
books  that  'she  had  read  and  in  the  public  journals 
there  had  been  intimations  of  a  glowing,  fiery  passion 
which  sometimes  transformed  its  possessors  and  bore 
them  upwards  to  miraculous  heights  of  bliss  and  some- 
times impelled  to  awful  catastrophe.  But  this  kind 
of  emotion  she  thought  could  not  be  for  her,  a  quiet 
little  girl  up  in  the  hills,  far  away  from  the  world's 
people  and  their  vanities;  nor  could  she  wish  it  to 
be  hers. 

If  at  times  she  felt  in  her  woman-nature  a  craving 
for  affection  so  strong  that  it  might  become  almost 
like  a  consuming  fire,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  her 
heart  to  it  all  and  turned  away  with  a  prayer  that  the 
tranquil  life  should  always  remain  with  her.  She 
was  sure  that  was  best  —  the  life  of  quietness,  of  peace, 
of  holiness  and  of  the  Indwelling  Spirit.  She  knew 
what  that  meant  and  George  knew  it,  too.  Could  she 
not  still  find  peace,  perhaps  even  a  higher  peace,  in 
wedlock  with  one  whose  spirit  was  perfectly  har- 
monious with  hers  ? 


In  a  Garden.  15 

She  knew  that  when  George  should  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife  she  would  say  yes,  and  say  it  with  some  glad- 
ness ;  but  her  heart  did  sink  a  little  bit,  perhaps,  when 
she  contemplated  that  possible  crisis  of  her  life. 
What  if,  in  that  most  solemn  union,  it  were  indeed 
required  that  there  should  be  a  fervor  of  spirit  far 
more  intense  than  she  could  ever  have  for  George? 
And  what  if,  when  the  bond  was  made,  she  should 
discover  that  she  had  never  really  known  what  true 
love  is? 

She  thought  deeply  of  this  while  George  was  speed- 
ing homeward,  with  no  doubts  in  his  heart  of  the 
fervor  of  his  affection,  and  while  she  meditated,  Mrs. 
Ponder,  freed  from  church,  came  through  the  gate 
and  then  upon  the  porch. 

Mrs.  Ponder  had  heard  that  Abby's  mother  was  not 
well,  and  with  neighborly  kindliness  had  called  to  ask 
about  her.  Abby  led  the  minister's  wife  into  the  room 
where  Rachel  Woolford  lay  upon  the  sofa,  and  when 
Mrs.  Ponder  had  exchanged  greetings  with  Rachel 
and  had  expressed  sympathy  for  her  in  her  illness, 
Mrs.  Ponder  lay  back  in  the  rocking  chair,  and  taking 
a  palm-leaf  fan  from  the  table  with  which  to  toy  while 
she  talked,  she  said  to  Abby : 

"I  saw  you,  Abby  dear,  in  the  garden  with  Mr. 
Fotherly,  as  I  went  into  church  this  morning." 

"Yes,"  answered  Abby,  "the  day  was  so  lovely  that 
we  found  the  open  air  pleasant." 

"Persons  feel  differently  about  such  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Ponder,  "and  I  am  far  from  wishing  to  criticise 
any  one,  but, 'my  dear,  much  as  I  love  Nature,  I  could 
not  bear  to  neglect  worship." 

"We  were  worshiping,"  said  Abby,  shyly,  with  her 
eyes  downcast.  "We  had  meeting." 


16  The  Quakeress. 

Mrs.  Ponder  looked  at  Abby  for  a  moment  with 
surprise  upon  her  face,  and  then  she  said : 

"Why,  my  dear  child,  how  perfectly,  perfectly 
sweet!  Just  you  two!  It  is  charming;  and  so  orig- 
inal, too!  Dr.  Ponder  will  be  interested  and  amused. 
In  his  sacerdotal  character  of  course  he  would  be  com- 
pelled to  regard  the  proceeding  as  irregular,  but  looked 
at  from  any  other  standpoint  it  is  really  lovely.  Per- 
haps, though,  I  should  not  speak  of  it  as  original. 
No  doubt  our  first  parents  worshiped  in  their  garden 
in  some  such  fashion  on  the  day  of  rest ;  but,  of  course, 
we  must  remember  in  their  behalf  that  they  had  no 
consecrated  structure  to  go  to." 

Neither  Abby  nor  her  mother  inclined  to  interrupt 
the  flow  of  Mrs.  Ponder's  talk. 

"The  truth  is,"  she  continued,  "there  must  have 
been  the  want  of  a  great  many  things  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden.  How  dreadfully  uncomfortable!  Nothing 
could  induce  me  to  live  in  such  a  place !  But  I  never 
could  have  done  it,  at  any  rate.  Even  in  this  delight- 
ful June  weather  I  do  not  dare  to  go  out  of  doors 
without  overshoes.  The  ground  never  gets  entirely 
dry." 

"But  I  do  believe,  dear  Abby  and  Mrs.  Woolford, 
that  if  I  had  been  there  I  should  have  done  very  much 
better  than  Adam  did.  One  does  not  like  to  speak 
harshly  of  one's  fellow  men,  but,  do  you  know,  really 
I  think  he  was  but  a  poor  creature,  at  the  best!  No 
wonder  the  race  made  a  bad  start,  with  him  at  the  head 
of  it !  The  only  thing  in  the  nature  of  an  extenuating 
circumstance  that  you  can  urge  in  his  behalf  is  that 
he  had  no  church-training  and  no  good  examples  about 
him,  unless  his  wife  was  a  good  example,  and  I  am 


In  a  Garden. 


far  from  clear  that  she  was,  when  we  consider  every- 
thing. I  often  think  that  if  Dr.  Ponder  could  have 
had  an  hour  alone  with  Adam  the  results  to  our  poor 
human  race  might  have  been  so  different !  The  doctor 
has  a  sermon  on  Sublapsarianism  that  I  am  perfectly 
certain  would  have  straightened  matters  out  if  the  man 
had  been  amenable  to  reason.  Are  you  a  Sublapsarian 
or  a  Supralapsarian,  Abby,  dear?" 

Abby  smiled  and  answered  : 

"Indeed  I  hardly  know.  Thee  is  so  much  more 
learned  than  I  am  about  such  matters." 

Mrs.  Ponder  looked  at  her  half  in  compassion,  half 
in  reproach,  and  said : 

"Not  exactly  learning,  my  dear.  Call  it  training, 
or,  if  you  please,  learning  that  comes  from  training 
applied  from  earliest  infancy.  Within  the  fold  of  the 
Church  even  the  infant  mind  learns  to  grasp  the  truth 
about  Sublapsarianism,  not  under  that  name,  but  the 
name  is  of  small  importance  if  the  mind  is  saturated 
with  the  facts.  O  that  those  dear  people  who  belong 
to  the  Friends'  Society  would  consent  to  make  these 
great  truths  their  own,  even  in  their  adult  years !" 

"I  know  Dr.  Ponder  would  be  only  too  glad  to  have 
permission  to  open  out  this  particular  subject  to  you — 
to  open  it  out  fully.  He  is  so  happy  in  dealing  with 
these  questions  and  making  them  plain.  May  I  say 
so  to  you?  I  know  you  will  pardon  me,  but  the  truth 
is  the  doctor's  success  in  converting  Friends  has  been 
really  extraordinary.  He  brought  in  seven  in  his  first 
parish!" 

Mrs.  Ponder's  manner  in  telling  of  this  triumph  was 
that  of  one  who  should  relate  how  a  successful  sports- 
man came  home  with  wild  game, 


The  Quakeress 


"I  know  I  ought  not  even  to  appear  to  cast  any 
reproach  upon  people  who  are  so  lovely  as  the  Friends, 
but  O,  my  dear  Mrs.  Woolford!  their  very  loveliness 
impels  me  to  yearn  for  them  !  I  am  a  very  poor  mis- 
sionary, though,  and  I  fear  I  give  offence  oftener  than 
I  produce  conviction.  You  will  forgive  me,  won't 
you?  Mrs.  Paxton  was  furious  the  other  day  when 
I  told  her,  in  the  kindest  manner,  that  I  feared  her 
views  were  tainted  with  Erastianism.  I  am  sure  she 
does  not  know  what  Erastianism  is,  but  she  declared 
she  would  never  set  her  foot  in  our  church  again,  and 
the  doctor  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  soothing  her. 
You  are  not  Erastian,  are  you?" 

"I  hardly  know,"  responded  Abby. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  not,  for  Friends  are  the  greatest 
kind  of  people  for  discipline;  at  least  I  have  always 
understood  so;  and  that  is  exactly  as  it  ought  to  be. 
The  longer  I  live,  though,  the  more  I  am  convinced 
there  is  really  but  one  safe  way  :  put  your  feet  firmly 
upon  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  and  stand  there. 

'•'And  now,  dear  Mrs.  Woolford  and  Abby,  I  must 
not  keep  the  doctor's  dinner  waiting.  I  must  go.  I 
am  so  glad  to  find  you  but  slightly  ill.  Send  for  me 
at  once  if  I  can  help  you  in  any  way." 

Mrs.  Ponder  rose  from  the  rocking  chair  and  was 
about  to  put  her  fan  upon  the  table,  when  a  thought 
occurred  to  her  and  she  hastily  sat  down  again. 

"I  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  niece  and 
nephew,  children  of  my  sister,  Mrs.  Harley,  are  com- 
ing to  the  rectory  this  week  to  stay  for  a  little  while. 
They  live  in  Maryland.  Dolly  is  a  dear  girl,  and  I 
know  both  of  you  will  love  her;  and,  as  for  Clayton! 
I  do  really  think  he  is  the  handsomest,  finest,  bright- 


In  a  Garden.  19 

est  fellow  in  the  world.  You  will  come  to  see  Dolly, 
won't  you,  Abby?" 

Then  Mrs.  Ponder  said  farewell  and  went  away; 
but  Abby,  who  had  walked  with  her  to  the  porch,  hid 
herself  again  by  the  clematis  vine  before  she  should 
wait  upon  her  mother. 

For  those  last  words  of  Mrs.  Ponder's,  lightly  said, 
foolishly  said,  for  aught  Abby  knew,  had  made  a 
strange  impression  upon  the  girl.  It  was  as  if  a  door 
had  been  suddenly  opened  through  which  she  had  a 
vista  of  another  and  more  wondrous  world.  She  could 
not  understand — it  would  have  been  foolish  and  futile 
even  to  try  to  understand  a  feeling  which  had  no 
basis  in  probability.  But  she  was  sure  she  had  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  mingled  with  foreboding.  She  knew  dimly 
that  the  time  was  coming  swiftly  to  her  when  the 
foundations  of  her  peace  would  be  shaken. 

If  there  be  no  Power  that  knows  the  future,  and 
man  unaided  cannot  read  its  mystery,  whence  does 
the  soul,  as  its  great  hour  draws  near,  get  presage  of 
its  destiny? 


CHAPTER  II. 
The  Southerners. 

Miss  HARLEY  came  to  the  parsonage  late  on 
Thursday  morning  with  her  negro  maid  and  her 
trunks,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Ponder  called 
at  the  grey  house  to  entreat  Abby  to  return  with  her 
that  she  might  know  Dolly  at  once.  ''Clayton  could 
not  come  to-day,  my  clear,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder.  "He 
will  be  with  us  on  Friday,  I  think,  and  meantime  you 
will  have  a  good  chance  to  be  well  acquainted  with 
Dolly." 

So  Abby,  without  bonnet  or  wrap,  went  over  to  the 
parsonage  with  the  minister's  wife,  and  Dolly  came 
running  down  stairs  at  her  aunt's  summons.  Abby 
extended  her  hand  to  the  girl,  but  Dolly  in  a  moment 
flung  her  arms  about  Abby's  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"You  must  come  right  up  to  my  room  with  me 
Miss — Miss — what  must  I  call  you  ?"  demanded  Dolly. 

"Just  Abby,  if  thee  pleases,"  was  the  reply,  given 
with  a  smile,  for  Abby  felt  that  she  should  like  this 
stranger. 

"Well,  then,  Abby,  do  you  think  you  could  bear  to 
sit  down  in  the  litter  of  a  disordered  room  while  I  try 
to  put  my  things  away?  If  you  can,  wre  will  go  up 
and  leave  aunty  to  her  nap  or  her  household  cares." 

The  room  was  indeed  in  disorder.  Both  trunks 
gaped  open  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  a  young 
negress,  neatly  dressed  and  with  a  cap  upon  her  head, 
busied  herself  with  removing  the  articles  from  the  trunk 

(20) 


The  Southerners.  2i 

and  placing  them  in  the  bureau  and  the  closets  at  the 
bidding  of  her  mistress.  Dolly  touched  nothing  with 
her  own  hands.  Flinging  herself,  half  sitting,  half 
lying,  upon  the  bed,  with  a  huge  pillow  at  her  elbow, 
while  Abby  sought  a  chair,  Dolly  seemed  to  care 
more  to  enjoy  the  presence  of  her  visitor  than  to  super- 
intend the  distribution  of  her  articles  of  apparel. 

"Aunty  has  often  spoken  to  me  of  you.  You  must 
be  very  good,  indeed,  to  please  her  so  much  when  you 
do  not  belong  to  her  church." 

Abby  laughed  and  said,  "I  like  Mrs.  Ponder  very 
much,  and  we  are  glad  to  have  her  for  so  near  a 
neighbor." 

"I  never  met  a  Friend  before,"  said  Dolly,  "and  you 
almost  make  me  feel  that  I  should  like  to  be  one.  But 
I  should  have  to  give  up  so  much,  shouldn't  I,  if  I 
should  join  them?" 

"There  are  some  things  that  Friends  do  not  ap- 
prove," said  Abby,  pleasantly,  "but  I  do  not  know 
whether  thee  has  many  of  them  or  would  find  it  hard 
to  give  them  up." 

"I  couldn't  wear  a  frock  like  this,  could  I?"  said 
Dolly,  jumping  up  and  snatching  from  the  servant's 
hand  a  bright  silk  dress  covered  with  lace  and  other 
finery. 

"I  never  saw  a  dress  of  that  kind  upon  a  Friend. 
It  would  startle  our  meeting,  I  fear." 

"But  I  could  renounce  it  without  a  pang  if  the 
Friends'  dress  became  me  as  it  does  you.  Your  frock 
makes  mine  look  tawdry.  And  that  bonnet!  Penny, 
hand  it. to  me!  Abby,  what  would  you  look  like  in 
such  a  bonnet?  It  would  really  spoil  your  looks,  I 
do  believe.  There,  will  you  let  me  try  it  on  you  ?" 


22  The  Quakeress. 

Without  waiting  for  permission  Dolly  put  the  bonnet 
upon  her  companion's  head,  tied  the  strings  beneath 
her  chin  and  then  led  her  to  the  glass  that  she  might 
look  at  herself. 

Abby,  with  her  cheeks  rosy,  felt  half  ashamed  to 
look,  but,  when  she  did  look,  she  thought  the  vision 
not  repulsive,  and  Dolly  said,  "Why,  my  dear,  you  look 
perfectly  lovely  in  it !  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  pretty." 

Abby  took  it  off  in  some  haste,  but  with  a  smiling 
face.  She  was  not  displeased  with  the  figure  in  the 
glass  or  with  Dolly's  freedom,  but  she  had  a  feeling 
that  it  was  not  quite  right  for  her  even  to  play  with 
such  things. 

But  Dolly  would  have  her  try  on  other  and  even 
gayer  garments,  always  expressing  admiration  after 
each  experiment;  and  at  last,  throwing  herself  upon 
the  bed  again,  she  said : 

"No!  I  think  I  could  not  give  up  fine  clothes.  I 
love  them  too  much.  But  do  all  Friends  dislike 
them?" 

"It  is  not  dislike,  exactly,"  said  Abby.  "The  theory 
of  Friends  is  that  they  should  not  love  fine  clothes ; 
that  fine  clothing  is  vanity.  They  think  that  the  mind 
is  diverted  by  them  from  more  important  things." 

"But  fine  clothes  are  so  very  important  and  so  de- 
lightful." 

"And  Friends  believe  that  they  should  find  delight 
in  something  better.  In  old  times  they  had  a  rhyme 
about  it  which  I  knew  when  a  child,  but  it  will  be  un- 
pleasant for  thee  to  hear." 

"No,  no,  no!  not  a  bit  unpleasant!  Do  give  it  to 
me." 

"Thee  will  think  me  unkind.     The  rhyme  is  not 


The  Southerners.  23 

heard  now,  I  think.  It  was  written  for  children  in 
the  old,  old  time." 

"I  know  you  will  say  it  for  me." 

Abby  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  colored,  and  then 
she  said,  "It  is  this  : 

"  Dress  not  to  please,  nor  imitate  the  nice 
Be  like  good  Friends  and  follow  their  advice. 
The  rich  man,  gaily  clothed,  is  now  in  hell, 
And  Dogges  did  eat  attired  Jezebel." 

"It  is  horrid,  isn't  it?"  asked  Abby  when  she  had 
done. 

"It  is  very  funny,"  said  Dolly,  "and  I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  you.  But  Abby?" 

"Well?" 

"Don't  repeat  it  to  aunty,  will  you  ?" 

"O  no!" 

"Because,  you  know,  Clayton  and  I  call  her  Aunt 
Jezebel.  Her  name  is  Isabel,  but  they  are  just  the 
same  names  really,  did  you  know  ?  and  we  do  it  to  tease 
her.  By  the  way,  I  forgot  about  Clayton.  I  am  so 
eager  to  have  you  meet  him.  He  will  be  here  on 
Friday,  and  we  shall  have  great  times.  Did  aunty 
tell  you  about  him?" 

"Just  a  little." 

"But  a  little  can't  do  him  justice.  He  is  a  cavalier ; 
a  perfect  Southern  gentleman.  I  know  you  will  like 
him.  He  is  a  dear.  Women  always  fall  in  love  with 
him.  Are  there  any  nice  men  about  here?" 

Abby  hardly  knew  what  answer  to  make  to  the 
question.  She  could  think  of  no  very  nice  young  man 
but  George,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  not  speak  of 
him  to  this  girl  who  was  so  eager  an  inquirer  after 
men. 


24  The  Quakeress. 

"Not  many,"  she  said. 

"It  must  be  so  dull  for  you!"  responded  Dolly. 
"That  is  another  reason  why  you  will  like  Clayt. 
When  you  come  to  see  me  upon  our  plantation,  and 
you  will  come  some  day,  won't  you?  I  will  introduce 
you  to  a  dozen  or  more  nice  fellows." 

Abby  felt  that  she  did.  not  care  to  continue  the  talk 
along  that  line,  so  she  said : 

"Thee  lives  upon  a  plantation,  does  thee?" 

"Yes,  right  on  the  bank  of  the  Sanaquan  River.'' 

"And  thee  has  slaves  ?" 

"More  than  a  hundred.  Penny,  my  own  maid  here, 
is  a  slave." 

Penny  had  gone  down  stairs  for  a  moment.  • 

"Really  belongs  to  thee?     Thy  property?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  thee  can  sell  her  if  thee  wishes  and  spend  the 
money  thee  gets  for  her?" 

"Yes,  indeed!  And  I  will  sell  her  if  she  doesn't 
behave  herself.  We  have  whipped  her  sometimes." 

Abby  did  not  reply.  She  turned  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  Dolly,  for  a  moment,  seemed  not  so 
charming  a  companion..  And  Abby  felt  that  she 
should  like  to  look  at  Penny  again. 

She  had  never  seen  a  slave,  and  to  be  in  the  house 
with  one  gave  a  little  shock  to  her.  When  Penny  en- 
tered the  room  Abby  looked  at  her  with  curious  interest 
which,  for  a  moment,  made  her  deaf  to  Dolly's  talk. 
Then  the  negress,  in  handling  some  article  taken  from 
the  trunk,  aroused  Dolly's  displeasure,  and  that  young 
woman,  springing  up  and  stamping  her  foot  upon  the 
floor,  exclaimed : 

"Penelope!  how  dare  you  muss  that  scarf  in  that 


The  Southerners.  25 

manner !  You  bad  girl !  Here,  give  it  this  instant 
to  me!"  and  Dolly,  snatching  the  scarf  with  her  left 
hand,  gave  an  angry  blow  upon  her  servant's  cheek 
with  the  other. 

"Worthless  niggers!"  she  said,  only  half  aloud,  as 
she  turned  toward  Abby  while  she  smoothed  and  re- 
folded the  scarf. 

A  thrill  ran  along  the  Quaker  girl's  nerves ;  a  thrill 
of  pity  for  the  servant,  and  of  dismay  at  the  act  and  the 
words  of  Miss  Harley.  She  had  never  heard  any 
woman  speak  so  harshly  to  a  dependent.  She  had 
never  seen  such  a  manifestation  of  unreasonable  anger. 
She  was  surprised  that  Penny  showed  no  surprise. 
She  had  a  sense  of  shame  that  Dolly  was  not  ashamed. 
But  that  person,  flinging  herself  upon  the  bed  again, 
went  on  with  her  talk  as  if  this  little  outburst  of  anger 
were  a  not  unusual  thing. 

"Clayt  sings  divinely,"  she  said.  "But  perhaps  you 
do  not  care  for  music  ?" 

"O,  yes/'  said  Abby,  "I  love  it." 

"You  are  not  a  musician?" 

"No." 

"Aunty  told  me  that  Friends  do  not  approve  of 
music.  And  you  have  no  piano  in  your  house?" 

"No." 

"And  never  dance?" 

"No." 

"No  music,  no  balls,  no  low  dresses !  But,  my  dear, 
how  do  you  pass  your  existence?  It  must  be  dread- 
ful." 

"But  thee  does  not  think  such  things  the  whole  of 
life,  does  thee?"  asked  Abby,  with  a  smile. 

"Not  absolutely  the  whole;  but  things  of  that  kind, 


26  The  Quakeress. 

things  that  give  pleasure,  help  to  make  life  tolerable — 
at  any  rate  pleasant,  and  you,  poor  Abby,  can  have 
none  of  them !" 

"My  life  is  very,  very  pleasant,"  said  Abby. 
"Friends  are  taught  to  find  pleasure  in  inward  things ; 
and  if  one  has  that  kind  of  pleasure,  one  learns  to  care 
less  for  things  that  are  outward." 

Dolly  looked  at  her  and  flung  her  head  backward 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience : 

"I  need  something  more  substantial,  my  dear.  The 
things  you  speak  of  are  too  shadowy ;  and  dreadfully 
tiresome,  too.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  go  to  church 
here  and  listen  to  Uncle  Ponder's  prosing.  Did  you 
ever  hear  him  preach?  He  is  particularly  dull,  poor 
old  man !  I  always  go  to  sleep  in  church.  I  care  only 
for  the  music;  and  that,  too,  is  often  stupid.  Clayt 
won't  go.  He  never  does.  Men  have  so  many  priv- 
ileges! I  wish  I  were  a  man." 

Abby  went  home  with  a  feeling  in  her  mind  of  per- 
plexity about  her  new  acquaintance.  She  had  hoped 
to  like  Dolly;  she  wished  to  like  her,  but  she  doubted 
if  she  should  ever  have  a  near  friendship  for  such  a 
girl.  She  was  hardly  conscious  that  behind  her  wish 
to  like  Dolly  was  that  strange  feeling  of  curiosity  and 
of  premonition  with  which  she  had  heard  of  Dolly's 
brother.  Nobody  could  account  for  or  interpret  the 
vague,  shadowy  impression  that  this  man  would  come 
to  mean  much  to  her.  The  first  impulse  of  any  one 
would  be  to  put  it  aside  as  foolish,  but  to  Abby  it  was 
a  wronderful  f  act,  f  and  her  experience  has  been  that 
of  myriads  of  others  into  whose  nature  the  spark  of 
true  love  has  been  mysteriously  blown. ) 

She  did  not  see  Dolly  on  Friday  morning,  and  Clay- 


The  Southerners.  27 

ton  did  not  come.  Late  on  Friday  afternoon  Abby 
and  her  mother  sat  upon  their  porch  while  Abby  told 
her  mother  much  of  the  meeting  with  the  Maryland 
girl.  She  said  nothing  of  the  angry  treatment  of 
Penny  or  of  Dolly's  inquiry  about  men ;  but  Rachel 
Woolford  had  clear  vision  and  she  said : 

"Thee  did  not  look  with  favor  on  her,  did  thee, 
dear?" 

"She  is  not  just  like  our  people,"  answered  Abby, 
and  then,  thinking  that  if  Clayton  came,  she  must  not 
seem  indifferent  to  the  sister,  she  added,  "But  she  has 
much  that  is  charming.  Thee  knows,  mother,  she  has 
been  brought  up  so  differently  from  our  ways." 

"I  know,"  said  Rachel,  "and  we  must  be  careful 
of  harsh  judgment  and  self-righteousness.  Is  it  a 
slave-girl  that  is  with  her?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"She  is  free,  if  she  chooses,  when  she  comes  here, 
if  she  knew  it.  But  we  may  find  it  wiser  not  to  meddle 
with  the  matter.  Thy  father,  though,  may  not  be  of 
that  opinion.  The  brother  has  not  yet  come,  has  he?" 

"No,  mother." 

Rachel  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  put  her 
hand  tenderly  upon  her  daughter's  arm  and  said : 

"If  thee  is  civil  to  him  it  will  be  enough." 

Abby  felt  almost  as  if  her  mother  had  read  her  soul. 
She  colored  slightly  and  answered  : 

"It  will  be  perhaps  enough." 

"For  I  think  \ve  may  well  desire  not  to  enlarge  very 
much  our  acquaintance  among  the  world's  people. 
They  do  not  understand  us,  and  they  have  many  dan- 
gerous allurements — for  young  people  particularly. 
We  must  always  walk  circumspectly,  dear.  Thy  love 


28  The  Quakeress. 

for  music,  which  is  very  innocent — even  that  may  be 
a  snare  for  thee." 

"I  cannot  think  sweet  music  harmful,  mother." 

"No,  quite  likely  it  is  not.  God  made  the  sounds 
possible  and  gave  thee  an  affection  for  them.  It  is 
pleasing  to  me,  too,  sometimes,  but  Friends  see  peril 
in  it,  and  for  thee,  if  thee  prefers  it  to  spiritual  things." 

A  young  man  came  slowly  up  the  street,  looking 
about  him  from  house  to  house.  The  women  upon  the 
porch  saw  him,  and  he,  coming  by  the  gate  of  the 
garden  and  perceiving  them,  walked  up  the  stone  steps, 
bowed  graciously,  and  said : 

"Will  you  pardon  me  for  asking  where  Dr.  Ponder 
lives?" 

He  looked  at  Abby,  but  her  mother  answered  the 
question,  and  then,  when  the  question  was  answered 
he  still  looked  at  Abby  while  he  bowed  again  and  re- 
turned to  the  pavement. 

"It  is  the  brother,  I  think,"  said  Rachel,  tranquilly. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Abby,  but  indeed  she  knew  it, 
and  her  heart  beat  strongly  as  she  watched  him  go 
upon  the  parsonage  porch  and  summon  the  servant  to 
the  door.  She  would  not  forget  that  slight,  graceful 
figure,  the  black  eyes  and  hair  and  the  handsome  face. 
The  memory  of  them  was  to  be  with  her  henceforth 
until  her  dying  day. 

Rachel  also  had  seen  that  he  was  good-looking,  but 
she  said : 

"His  Aunt  Ponder  will  wish  to  introduce  him  to 
her  church  people,  where  he  can  have  gaiety.  We 
shall  avoid  seeing  much  of  him,  Abby." 

But  this  was  not  Abby's  idea,  nor  Dolly's,  nor  Mrs. 
Ponder's.  That  very  night  after  supper  Dolly  came 


lie  Southerners. 


over  to  introduce  Clayton  and  to  bring  from  her  aunt 
an  insistent  invitation  that  Abby  should  take  tea  with 
them  on  Saturday  evening,  and  Abby  consented  to  go. 

Dr.  Ponder  appeared  at  the  tea-table  and  greeted 
Abby  with  tenderness,  putting  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder  and  smiling  graciously  upon  her.  Long  ago 
he  had  marked  her  as  another  trophy  of  his  skill  as  a 
bringer-in  of  Quakers.  "One  of  my  lambs,"  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  placed  her  by  his  side  at  the  table. 

The  doctor's  grace  was  said  standing.  It  was  long, 
and  it  included  a  petition  for  the  Jews.  The  Quakers 
he  reserved  for  the  silent  entreaties  of  the  closet,  instead 
of  associating  them  with  removal  of  the  pangs  of 
hunger. 

Dr.  Ponder's  thought  was  upon  the  subject  of  the 
Jews  as  the  meal  began. 

"I  have  no  doubt  whatever,"  he  said,  "that  we  are 
the  lost  tribes.  The  evidence" — • 

"By  'we'  you  mean — ?"  asked  Clayton. 

"I  mean  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  to  which  you  and 
I  belong,"  answered  the  doctor.  "Most  of  the 
prophecies  have  been  fulfilled  in  us.  The  riches,  the 
power,  the  splendid  intellectual  development,  the  purity 
of  our  religion,  all  these  things  go  to  prove  that  we 
are  indeed  a  part  of  the  Chosen  People.  We  are  in 
the  broadest  sense  the  heirs  of  the  promises." 

"But  we  were  lost,"  said  Clayton. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  doctor,  "our  ten  tribes  were." 

"I  am  so  glad  we  were  lost,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder, 
positively. 

"Glad,  wife!     How  can  you  speak  in  that  way?" 

"I  mean,  birdie,"  responded  Mrs.  Ponder,  "glad  we 
were  lost  in  the  sense  that  we  wandered  off  somewhere 


The  Quakeress. 


and  finally  came  over  here.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
tribes  that  were  not  lost  got  the  worst  of  it." 

"I'm  a  little  glad  myself,"  said  Clayton.  "Mary- 
land's ever  so  much  more  delightful  than  Palestine, 
I  should  think,  just  now,  at  any  rate." 

"You  can  find  traces  of  the  truth,"  said  the  doctor, 
taking  up  the  general  matter  again,  "even  in  names. 
Why  should  the  lost  tribes  be  Saxons?  The  subject 
is  obscure  until  you  reflect  that  that  very  name  is  in- 
dicated in  the  phrase  'Isaac's  son/  and  we  are  all 
Isaac's  sons  if  we  are  the  lost  tribes." 

"And  we  are  not  so  very  proud  of  our  ancestor, 
either,"  whispered  Dolly  to  Abby. 

"The  cradle  of  the  race,  you  remember,"  said  the 
doctor,  "was  between  the  Black  Sea  and  the  Sea  of 
Azov,  in  Scythia,  which  is  really  Sacae — that  is,  the 
last  syllable  of  the  name  Isaac,  from  which  Saxon 
has  been  derived.  There  is  little  doubt  that  Sargon 
transported  the  ten  tribes  of  Israel  from  Media  in 
Assyria,  whither  they  had  been  taken  by  Shalmanezer 
721  B.  C,  to  Scythia,  and  that  is  why  there  are  so 
many  Jews  in  Russia  now.  High  authorities  trace 
the  royal  family  of  Great  Britain  back  to  David,  and 
it  is  really  a  remarkable  example  of  the  persistent  in- 
fluence of  heredity  that  its  members  have  the  blonde 
hair  and  complexion  of  David.  London  is  named 
after  Dan;  Lon-Dan;  and  then,  when  you  think  of 
the  lion  of  Judah  and  the  British  lion" — 

"I  think,"  interposed  Mrs.  Ponder,  "that  we  ought 
to  be  very  careful  not  to  exaggerate  or  to  guess  wildly 
in  these  matters.  Uncle  only  conjectures  we  are  the 
lost  tribes." 

"Partly  conjecture,  wife,  and  partly  demonstrated 
fact." 


The  Southerners.  31 

"In  my  childhood,"  persisted  Mrs.  Ponder,  "I  was 
misled  frequently  by  the  ignorance  or  the  depravity 
of  the  publishers  of  Sunday  School  books.  The 
pictures  showed  the  spies  returning  with  the  grapes 
of  Eschol,  and  each  grape  was  as  large  as  a  water- 
melon, and  Absalom  was  always  represented  as  swing- 
ing from  a  tree  by  hair  much  longer  than  he  was." 

"The  Bible  does  not  say  he  was  caught  by  his  hair," 
said  the  doctor. 

"I  know  it,  birdie,  and  I'm  sure  the  Good  Samaritan 
did  not  pour  oil  and  wine  from  a  bottle  into  an  orifice 
in  the  poor  man's  chest  as  the  Sunday  School  books 
represented." 

"Riper  knowledge  and  better  taste  have  resulted  in 
the  retirement  of  those  foolish  books,"  said  the  doctor. 
"No  grape,  even  in  that  favored  land,  was  ever  so  large 
as  a  melon,  and  the  Samaritan  in  that  lovely  story 
simply  cleansed  and  soothed  the  sufferer's  wounds." 

"A  lesson  for  all  of  us,  too!"  reflected  Mrs.  Ponder, 
while  renewing  the  tea  in  Abby's  cup.  "Kindness  for 
each  other,  well  directed  and  judicious  kindness,  which 
I  am  afraid  we  do  not  always  exhibit.  I  have  never 
been  satisfied,  for  example,  with  the  missionary  box 
that  we  made  up  last  Christmas  for  the  clergyman 
in  Colorado." 

"Why  not,  auntie?"  asked  Dolly. 

"Somebody  in  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society  suggested 
that  as  Christmas  was  near,  we  should  send  a  plum  , 
pudding.     So  when  the  box  was  to  be  made  ready  ~ 
four   ladies   brought   plum   puddings,    and   there  was  » 
almost  nothing  else  in  the  box  but  some  underclothing  ' 
and  two  pairs  of  dumb-bells,  and  I  said  plainly  to  the 
meeting  that  it  was  a  queer  outfit  for  a  missionary  in 


32  Tlie  Quakeress. 

a  cold  climate.  The  mercury  out  there  goes  to  thirty- 
two  below,  and  there  is  a  blizzard  every  other  week." 

"Not  quite  so  often  as  that,  wife!"  said  Dr.  Ponder, 
smiling. 

"Nearly  that  often,  at  any  rate.  I  would  have  filled 
the  box  properly  without  the  Ladies'  Aid,  but — well — 
well,  I  will  say  it  in  the  privacy  of  my  own  family: 
the  fact  is  that  Dr.  Ponder  will  never  in  the  other 
world  have  it  laid  to  his  charge  that  'he  heapeth  up 
riches  and  cannot  tell  who  shall  gather  them.' ' 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  wife,"  remarked  the  doctor, 
coloring. 

"Very  well,  perhaps  it  were  better  unsaid;  but  how 
people  with  souls  can  be  so  inconsiderate  of  a  poor 
minister  who  is  working  in  the  cold  part  of  the  vine- 
yard, is  inconceivable  to  me." 

"Are  you  sure  they  have  souls?"  asked  Clayton. 

"Not  so  very  sure,"  answered  Mrs.  Ponder,  smiling, 
"and  sometimes  I  think  it  might  perhaps  be  better  if 
none  of  us  had,  like  that  fabled  girl.  What's  her 
name?  Dudheen  or ?" 

"Undine,"  said  Abby,  modestly. 

"Yes,  Undine.  I  knew  it  was  something  like  that; 
because,  then,  we  should  have  so  much  less  trouble. 
Think  what  a  relief  it  would  be  to  uncle  there  not  to 
have  to  care  for  them !" 

"But,  wife,"  said  Dr.  Ponder,  in  protest,  "I  do  not 
at  all  count  it  trouble.  It  is  joy.  Most  assuredly  it 
could  give  me  no  kind  of  satisfaction  to  know  that 
my  fellow  beings  are  like  the  beasts  that  perish." 

"Maybe  the  beasts  have  souls,  too,"  ventured  Dolly. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  to  Mrs.  Ponder,  "you 
recall  Senator  Wigger,  who  was  a  vestryman  in  my 


The  Southerners.  33 

first  parish?  He  inclined,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  hold 
the  Pythagorean  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of 
souls.  He  thought  that  men's  souls  after  death  took 
up  a  new  life  in  the  bodies  of  animals." 

"Senator  Wigger  reversed  the  process,"  said  Mrs. 
Ponder.  "If  I  believed  at  all  in  transmigration,  which 
I  do  not,  I  should  be  compelled  to  believe  that  brute 
animal  souls  come  into  human  bodies.  I  know  plenty 
of  cat  women  and  parrot  women,  and  pig  men  are 
common.  You  always  find  them  in  church  vestries — 
generally  they  are  accounting  wardens.  In  uncle's 
first  parish" — 

"I  would  defer  allusion  to  that,  wife,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, lifting  his  hand. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  birdie,  but  when  a  vestry- 
man in  a  Christian  church  tries  to  pay  his  pew-rent  by 
sending  the  minister  sprouted  potatoes  and  mouldy 
flour,  it  is  useless  for  any  one  to  pretend  that  in  his 
inner  nature  he  belongs  to  the  human  family." 

"I  fear,  wife,"  said  the  doctor,  sadly,  "you  will  give 
to  our  dear  young  Friend,  here,  wrong  notions  of  the 
Church.  These  things,  my  dear  Abby,  of  which  Mrs. 
Ponder  speaks,  are  but  trifles — matters  incident  to  the 
weakness  of  poor  human  nature.  A  church  may  be 
thoroughly  Apostolic  in  all  its  departments  and  yet 
have  folly  and  sin  fulness  and  selfishness  among  its 
members." 

•"Friends  have  faults,  too,"  said  Abby,  courteously. 

"Many,  many  faults!"  said  Dr.  Ponder,  with  em- 
phasis and  some  eagerness.  "It  is  appalling  to  think 
of  them.  Take,  for  example,  their  complete  neglect 
of  the"— 

"Not  now,  birdie,  not  here!"  said  Mrs.   Ponder. 


34  The  Quakeress. 

"The  poor  child  will  not  care  for  a  full  discussion  of 
the  matter  while  she  is  with  us  to  meet  Mary's  chil- 
dren." 

"No  doubt  you  are  right.  But  Abby,  my  dear,  I 
must,  upon  a  favorable  opportunity,  open  out  the  whole 
subject  to  you,  so  that  you  may  see  precisely  how  far 
and  in  what  particulars  the  Friends,  worthy  as  they 
are,  have  surrendered  the  very  vital  and" — 

"Birdie!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ponder,  with  a  touch  of 
severity  in  her  tone.  The  doctor  said  no  more,  but 
took  a  fresh  muffin. 

"I  think  myself,"  said  Clayton,  "that  uncle  would 
have  more  time  for  an  exhaustive  treatment  of  the 
subject  upon  some  other  occasion.  You  don't  care 
to  go  into  it  now,  do  you,  Miss  Woolford?" 

Abby  laughed  lightly  and  made  no  reply;  but  Dolly 
leaned  over  to  her  and  said : 

"Uncle  is  just  absurd!  Let  us  go  out  to  the  porch 
and  be  reasonable." 

After  supper  the  three  young  people  went  out  to 
the  darkness  of  the  porch,  and  presently  Mrs.  Ponder 
joined  them,  while  Uncle  Ponder  withdrew  to  his 
study  to  write  the  last  words  of  his  evening  sermon 
for  the  next  day.  All  were  in  high  spirits,  and  Mrs. 
Ponder,  who  never  failed  of  vivacity,  was  in  sympathy 
with  them.  Her  mind  not  unnaturally  was  much  oc- 
cupied with  church  matters,  and  these  found  a  place 
in  her  conversation  frequently. 

Clayton  told  many  good  stories  and  related  many 
wonderful  adventures  in  which  he  had  taken  part,  and 
animation  and  fervor  were  in  his  talk  because  for  one 
of  the  listeners  he  had  conceived  great  admiration. 
Dolly  was  a  capital  story-teller,  and  she  almost  sur- 
passed Clayton  in  supplying  entertainment. 


The  Southerners.  35 

Abby  told  no  stories  and  she  had  had  no  adventures. 
She  listened  eagerly  to  her  companions  and  laughed 
heartily,  and  found  Clayton  a  very  pleasing  person 
indeed.  Toward  her  he  used  that  manner  of  ex- 
treme deference  which  women  always  like. 

"You  must  sing  for  us,  Clayt,"  said  his  sister  at 
last;  and  both  Mrs.  Ponder  and  Abby  entreated  him 
to  do  so.  He  made  no  pretence  of  reluctance.  Softly, 
with  a  clear  tenor,  he  sang  one  or  two  songs  to  Abby's 
great  delight,  and  then  Dolly  said : 

"And  that  lost-love  song." 

"It  is  too  sad,"  answered  Clayton.  "We  don't 
want  dismal  things." 

But  Dolly  urged  him  and  so,  hesitating  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  sang  with  tenderness  and  true  feeling  the 
song  for  which  his  sister  had  asked  him.  Abby  felt 
the  deep  pathos  of  it,  but  the  tears  trickled  upon  her 
cheeks  when  the  singer  took  up  the  final  verse : 

"  O  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so ! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore, 

I  remember  all  that  I  said, 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more — no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead." 

There  was  silence  when  the  song  was  ended.  Then 
Clayton  said  something  of  a  light  nature  to  Abby,  but 
she  could  not  at  once  answer  him,  lest  the  quaver  in 
her  voice  should  show  her  feeling. 

"I  wish  we  had  you  in  our  choir,  Clayton,"  said 
Aunt  Ponder,  bringing  relief  to  the  tension.  "Our 
tenor  does  not  know  how  to  articulate.  Nobody  can 


36  The  Quakeress. 

hear  a  word  of  what  he  is  singing;  although,  for  my 
part,"  she  continued,  "there  are  some  words  in  the 
hymn  book  that  I  would  as  lief  not  hear.  I  never 
could  bear  that  hymn  that  begins  'Stand  up,  my  soul,' 
for  I  think  a  person  ought  not  to  sing  to  his  own  soul 
when  he  goes  to  church,  and  souls  can't  stand  up,  any- 
how." 

"How  do  you  know,  aunty?"  asked  Clayton. 

"I  don't  know;  but  if  they  are  anything  like  those 
pictures  of  cherubs — the  horrid  little  creatures  without 
legs,  I  mean — of  course  they  can't." 

Although  Abby  lived  but  a  few  steps  away,  Clayton 
would  go  with  her  to  her  home  when  she  had  said 
farewell,  and  he  lingered  at  her  door  for  a  minute  or 
two  to  talk  with  her  before  she  entered  and  went 
up  stairs  with  the  music  and  the  words  of  that  song 
running  through  her  memory : 

"  My  own,  own  love,  and  my  love  that  loved  me  so." 

And  while  the  song  sang  itself  to  her,  her  mind  was 
busy  contrasting  Clayton  with  George.  She  saw  be- 
fore her  the  big,  handsome  farmer  with  the  broad 
shoulders,  the  mighty  hand  brown  with  the  sun  and 
hard  with  toil;  the  serious  man,  who  rarely  jested; 
who  talked  little  and  not  often  lightly;  who  seemed 
to  live  in  a  spiritual  height  above  her;  who  in  his 
preaching  sometimes  showed  knowledge  of  things  that 
were  hidden  from  her;  who,  despite  his  tenderness 
and  gentleness  and  refined  feeling,  cared  not  for  the 
music  that  thrilled  her  soul,  and  would  have  shut  his 
ears  to  the  passion  of  the  song  she  had  just  now  heard. 
She  honored  him;  she  revered  him;  she  had  a  kind 
of  strange  awe  of  him  while  she  liked  his  companion- 


Southerners. 


37 


ship.  But  this  other  man!  Not  much  taller  than  she 
was;  with  small  white  hands,  small  feet,  delicate  feat- 
ures, a  pallid  skin  made  more  pallid  by  the  intense 
blackness  of  his  thick  curly  hair  and  his  dark  eyes. 
This  man,  with  the  sweet  musical  voice  and  evidently 
a  nature  of  exquisite  sensitiveness  to  the  music  and  the 
sentiment  of  the  song  he  had  sung!  She  felt  herself 
somehow  upon  a  level  with  him.  She  felt  so,  although 
her  fancy  inclined  to  lift  him  up  until  he  seemed  to 
be  too  beautiful  and  too  -gifted  for  a  plain,  ordinary, 
commonplace  girl,  such  as  she  was,  to  have  compan- 
ionship with.  She  tried  to  rid  her  mind  of  him  as 
she  prepared  for  sleep,  but  always  his  image  came  back 
to  her,  and  with  it  that  great  question,  What  does  he 
think  of  me?  And  while  she  thought  of  it  and  of 
him,  and  was  half  happy  in  her  meditation,  all  the 
matter  became  sweet  and  strange  confusion  to  her,  and 
she  slumbered. 


CHAPTER  III. 
First-day  at  Plymouth  Meeting. 

ON  First-day  after  breakfast  Clayton  went  out  upon 
the  porch  of  the  parsonage  to  taste  the  sweetness  of 
the  morning,  and  Dolly  followed  him.  The  air,  bear- 
ing the  odors  of  the  flowers,  was  filled  with  the  de- 
licious moist  coolness  of  the  night  and  the  dew.  The 
hills  were  violet  and  misty  beyond  the  valley.  The 
wind  moved  gently  through  the  trees  of  the  Woolford 
garden,  where  the  birds  were  fluttering  and  twittering 
and  the  sun  was  bringing  warmth  to  the  shining  wet 
grasses  and  the  beaded  leaves.  The  Harleys  were 
not  used  to  the  hills,  which  to  the  dweller  in  a  flat 
country  always  have  about  them  something  surprising 
and  mysterious.  They  were  now  softened  and  made 
remote  by  the  light  vapor  that  hung  in  the  atmos- 
phere, the  tribute  of  the  river  to  the  cloud. 

The  brother  and  the  sister  stood  by  the  porch-rail 
looking  out  upon  them,  and  while  they  gazed  silently 
Abby  came  from  the  rear  door  of  her  house,  in  her 
First-day  garments,  but  wearing  a  white  apron  and 
a  filmy  hood  upon  her  head. 

She  did  not  see  the  Harleys,  for  she  went  along  the 
graveled  walks  among  the  flower  beds,  clipping  the 
blooms  from  the  bushes  and  catching  them  in  her 
apron.  In  fact,  her  thought  was  much  upon  the  par- 
sonage and  its  guests;  but  in  that  house  late-rising 
was  the  practice  and  she  had  not  expected  to  find  any 
one  upon  the  porch.  So  she  did  not  look  up,  but 

(38) 


Plymouth  Meeting.  39 

went  from  plant  to  plant  without  raising  her  eyes  and 
without  considering  if  any  one  were  watching  her. 

But  Clayton's  eyes  were  gleaming  as  he  looked  at 
her,  and  in  Dolly's  soul,  mingled  with  admiration,  was 
a  touch  of  envy  of  the  girl  whose  loveliness  was  far 
beyond  the  need  of  artifice. 

Going  hither  and  thither,  among  the  beds,  Abby 
came  nearer  to  the  border  fence,  and  she  had  just  lifted 
her  hand  to  pluck  a  great  lilac  blossom  from  the  bush 
when  she  saw  the  watchers  upon  the  parsonage  porch. 
She  gave  a  little  cry  expressive  of  the  shock  of  the 
surprise,  and  then  with  the  flush  deepening  upon  her 
ruddy  cheek  and  rising  to  her  white  forehead,  she 
laughed  and  said,  "Good  morning!" 

Then  Clayton  leaped  over  the  porch-railing  and 
came  to  her,  and  she  greeted  him  with  sweet  gentle- 
ness. Plucking  some  roses  from  her  apron  she  said 
to  him : 

"These  are  for  thy  sister." 

"And  is  there  none  for  me?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  one  for  thee,  if  thee  will  have  it,"  and  she  put 
into  his  hand  a  crimson  bud. 

Then  Clayton  asked  the  favor  that  he  might  come 
over  into  the  garden  and  help  her  gather  the  flowers. 
But  she  said : 

"No,  I  thank  thee.  I  have  quite  enough,  and  I 
must  go  into  the  house  for  my  duties  there."  And 
then  she  added,  shyly,  "but  thee  can  come  some  other 
time  and  help  me  and  help  thyself  and  thy  sister  " 

"Some  other  time"  seemed  to  Clayton  almost  too 
far  distant  and  too  indefinite  for  his  eagerness,  and 
so  he  said : 

"Are  Friends  very  strict  about  Sunday  and  Sunday 
things,  like  visiting?" 


40  The  Quakeress. 

"Not  very  strict,"  answered  Abby,  smiling,  "but 
we  go  to  meeting  always  on  First-day  morning." 

"Meeting?   Where?"  asked  Clayton. 

"To  our  regular  meeting;  Plymouth  meeting." 

"How  far  from  here  is  it?" 

"About  two  miles;  right  out  that  way,"  answered 
Abby,  pointing  to  the  northeast. 

"May  I  go  with  you  to-day?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

Abby  hesitated.  George  would  come  for  her  as 
he  always  did.  He  would  have  a  carriage  for  two 
persons.  If  Abby  should  go  off  with  this  stranger, 
what  would  George's  feelings  be?  She  saw  quickly 
that  if  Dolly  could  go  with  George  the  difficulty 
would  be  removed;  but  Dolly  probably  would  not 
care  to  go  to  meeting,  and  George  might  not  wish 
to  ask  her  to  go  in  his  carriage.  So  after  a  moment 
of  perplexity,  Abby  said : 

"I  have  a  custom  of  going  in  a  carriage  with  a 
friend  of  my  father's  who  comes  for  me,  but — " 

"And  there  is  no  room  for  me?"  demanded  Clay- 
ton. 

"Usually  there  is  room  but  for  two  persons  and — " 

"Well,  then,  you  will  walk  over  with  me,  won't 
you?  It  is  cool  enough  and  bright  and  beautiful 
enough.  Let  us  walk  there,  and  you  can  show  me 
the  scenery  and  tell  me  all  about  meetings  and  about 
Friends.  Please  take  me  with  you." 

"I  should  like  to  go,  too,"  said  Dolly.  "I  wonder 
if  your  friend  will  not  let  me  have  your  place  in  the 
carriage?" 

"I  will  ask  him,"  replied  Abby,  who  for  herself  had 
some  feeling  of  pleasure  at  the  promise  of  this  ar- 
rangement, but  some  doubts  about  George. 


Plymouth  Meeting.  41 

A  little  later  than  nine  o'clock  the  two  girls  and 
Clayton  sat  upon  the  Woolford  porch  when  George 
drove  up  and  hitched  his  horse  in  front  of  the  house. 
He  had  expected  to  see  no  one  but  Abby,  and  when 
he  had  been  introduced  to  the  Harleys  and  had  sat 
with  them  for  a  few  moments,  Dolly  said  to  him: 

"Mr.  Fotherly,  I  want  so  much  to  go  to  your 
meeting.  Abby  and  my  brother  have  agreed  to  walk 
there,  but  I  never  could  take  long  walks,  and  so 
Abby  intended  to  ask  you  if  I  might  ride  with  you.'"' 

There  could  be  but  one  response  to  that  sugges- 
tion, and  George  made  it  with  grave  courtesy,  con- 
cealing bravely  his  disappointment.  Then,  as  Abby 
and  Clayton,  bidding  the  others  farewell,  went  out 
from  the  gate  and  turned  up  the  street  to  begin 
their  journey,  George  lingered  for  a  moment  to  talk 
with  Dolly  and  to  say  good  morning  to  Rachel 
Woolford  within  the  house. 

George  was  troubled  to  think  of  Abby  gone 
away  with  the  young  Southerner  upon  a  journey 
she  had  been  used  to  make  with  him  and  to  give 
happiness  to  him;  but  he  said  to  himself,  "It  is  but 
courtesy  to  her  neighbors'  guest,  and  not  to  be  se- 
riously considered."  And  then  the  natural  man  in 
him  had  not  been  so  thoroughly  subdued  that  he 
should  be  indifferent  to  the  charm  of  this  bright 
young  creature  with  rosy  lips  and  sparkling  eyes,  who 
plainly  wished  to  ride  with  him. 

The  fanciful  clothing,  gay  with  ribbons  and  color, 
might  indeed  seem  odd  in  the  carriage  with  the 
grave  preacher;  but  Friends  would  understand  the 
need  of  attention  to  a  visitor,  and  for  the  reproach 
of  others  he  cared  nothing. 


42  The  Quakeress. 

He  helped  her  to  mount  into  the  carriage  and 
then  he  sat  beside  her,  and  at  once  she  began  to  talk 
to  him  with  animation.  She  put  aside  levity.  She 
was  deferential.  She  looked  up  to  him.  Her  opin- 
ions were  presented  timidly  as  suggestions.  With- 
out clear  purpose,  but  as  it  were  instinctively,  she 
made  constant  tribute  to  his  superiority.  She  sat 
at  his  feet  as  a  learner.  She  invited  him  to  talk. 
She  drew  him  out.  She  was  a  mere  thirsty  attendant 
at  the  fountain  of  wisdom.  She  was  eager  to  learn 
about  Friends.  She  was  warm  in  expressing  her  ad- 
miration of  much  that  she  saw  in  them;  and  she 
praised  Abby  with  real  enthusiasm. 

Often,  as  she  spoke,  she  would  turn  her  face 
around  and  upward,  her  eyes,  when  they  met  his, 
seeming  to  appeal  to  him  and  to  express  respect  and 
trust.  Her  manner  was  as  if  she  would  say:  "You 
are  so  strong  and  wise  that  my  weakness  and  ignor- 
ance impel  me  to  you  for  help.  I  want  you  to  help 
me  and  instruct  me  and  to  let  some  of  your  light 
shine  in  upon  my  darkness." 

It  was  plain  to  George  that  she  liked  him,  and  no 
man  is  great  enough  to  be  indifferent  to  the  subtle 
admiration  of  a  young  and  pretty  woman.  He 
seemed  to  her  so  big  and  strong  and  forceful !  She 
had  never  cared  for  small  men.  Behind  his  glove  on 
the  broad  hand  that  held  the  rein,  she  could  see  that 
he  had  a  wrist  like  Esau's.  "Such  a  splendid  manly 
man !"  she  said  to  herself. 

Before  the  carriage  reached  the  very  top  of  the 
hill  George  found  himself  really  in  a  little  glow  of 
friendliness  for  his  companion.  Then,  in  the  very 


Plymouth  Meeting.  43 

midst  of  one  of  her  sentences  her  eye  caught  the  glo- 
rious picture  that  lay  below  them  in  the  hollow  to  the 
left,  where  for  mile  after  mile  the  green  billowy  fields 
roll  away  to  the  far-off  Chester  hills.  Dolly  stopped 
abruptly,  and  putting  her  finger-tips  upon  George's 
arm,  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment  and 
delight.  Pointing  to  the  valley,  she  said : 

"O,  look  there !     Isn't  that  lovely !" 

The  touch  of  the  hand,  light,  but  for  a  moment, 
unconscious,  it  might  be,  upon  her  part,  made 
George  irresponsive  to  her  talk  about  the  landscape. 
The  landscape  he  knew.  To  him  it  had  ever  been 
glorious,  and  never  so  glorious  as  when  with  Abby 
by  his  side  he  had  looked  upon  it.  But  now  with 
the  thrill  of  the  finger-tips  upon  him,  he  was  con- 
scious that,  whatever  might  be  in  the  soul  of  his 
companion,  there  was  right  here  for  him  a  summons 
to  gird  himself  for  conflict. 

He  urged  his  horse  forward,  and  though  Dolly 
talked  on  as  if  she  had  not  observed  his  neglect  to 
answer,  he  said  little  more  in  response  to  her  but 
Yes,  or  No,  and  as  if  by  carelessness  he  withdrew 
from  contact  with  her  garments.  She  seemed  not 
to  perceive  this,  but  when  the  jolting  of  the  car- 
riage by  a  stone  thrust  her  slightly  against  him,  she 
laughed,  asked  pardon  sweetly,  and  resumed  her 
talk  and  her  questioning  while  a  ribbon  from  her 
dress  fluttered  its  end  against  his  shoulder. 

And  while  she  talked  and  seemed  to  him  so  fasci- 
nating that  he  could  hardly  restrain  himself  from 
speaking  to  her  in  such  a  fashion  as  to  commend 
himself  to  her,  his  memory  went  back  to  an  old,  old 


44  The  Quakeress. 

battleground  on  which  in  fierce  anguish,  in  wrest- 
ling prayer,  with  strong  crying  and  tears  he  had  at 
last  won  a  mighty  victory.  He  had  conquered,  but 
even  while  he  stood  triumphant  there  had  been  half 
regret  that  the  triumph  was  achieved.  Strange  soul 
of  man,  in  which  one  seems  to  fight  against  himself! 
where  the  spiritual  nature  must  conquer  or  die,  but 
cannot  conquer  without  remembering  and  still  feel- 
ing the  exquisite  sweetness  and  the  strong  allure- 
ments of  the  evil  thing  that  was  conquered ! 

George  felt  his  soul  shudder  as  the  thought  came 
to  him  that  there  may  have  been  no  final  victory, 
but  that  again  he  must  buckle  on  his  armor  and  take 
up  the  conflict.  And  yet  he  knew  that  that  is  the 
appointed  lot  of  man  in  this  earthly  life;  that  there 
is  no  end  of  battle  till  the  carnal  man  has  been  left 
behind  by  the  flight  of  the  spiritual  man  to  the  world 
of  spirits.  And  while  the  girl  beside  him  prattled  on 
and  he  was  civil  to  her  in  monosyllables,  his  thought 
went  out  and  over  the  matter  and  once  more  he  saw 
plainly  how  vain  it  is  to  look  to  formalism  for  help 
in  such  a  strife.  "How  shall  ceremonies  avail,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "how  shall  priest,  or  pomp,  or 
flaunting  finery  of  worship  give  strength  to  a  man 
in  that  struggle?  It  is  a  death-grapple  with  hell, 
and  in  the  combat  with  spiritual  wickedness  in  high 
places  none  can  help  but  the  Divine  Spirit  of  Him 
who,  tempted  at  all  points  like  as  we  are,  was  the 
conqueror  just  where  I  must  conquer  or  give  up 
fellowship  with  Him." 

It  was  with  feelings  of  relief  and  of  pleasure  that 
George  saw  the  meeting-house  yard  at  the  turn  of 


Plymouth  Meeting  45 

the  road,  and  that  he  helped  Dolly  to  alight  by  the 
women's  door  and  then  led  his  horse  away  to  the 
shed  to  tie  him  there.  He  was  resolved  not  to  take 
her  home  with  him  if  he  could  help  it;  but  he  saw 
that  there  was  small  hope  that  he  should  have  his 
way. 

Dolly  waited  by  the  door  for  Abby  and  Clayton 
to  come,  and  while  she  waited  she  watched  George 
striding  off  across  the  grass  with  his  hand  upon  the 
bridle  of  his  horse.  She  would  ride  home  with  him, 
she  thought,  and  she  did  not  guess  that,  while  he 
strove  to  quell  the  tumult  within  him,  he  thought 
of  that  with  dismay  and  foreboding. 


"We  must  walk  smartly,"  said  Abby,  as  she  and 
Clayton  turned  into  the  street  from  her  garden-gate. 
"Meeting  begins  at  ten  and  there  are  two  full  miles 
to  go." 

Beneath  the  shade  of  the  trees  they  went  upon  the 
village  sidewalk,  mounting  higher  and  higher  by 
slow  ascent  until  the  boundaries  of  the  town  were 
reached,  and  then  they  came  out  into  the  open  coun- 
try upon  the  treeless  road.  There  from  the  hill-top 
was  the  view  across  the  lowlands  that  had  excited 
Dolly,  but  Abby  would  not  now  consent  to  tarry 
that  Clayton  might  look  at  it. 

"Thee  may  stop  as  we  come  back,  if  thee  pleases," 
she  said,  "but  now  I  would  not  be  late  for  meeting." 

So  they  went  downward  toward  Plymouth,  walk- 
ing together  upon  the  firm  earth  beside  the  carriage- 
way, and  both  with  joy.  Abby  indeed  was  radiantly 


46  The  Quakeress. 

happy.  The  sunshine  was  glorious.  The  air  was 
cool  and  full  of  the  sweetness  of  the  fields;  both  the 
man  and  the  woman  had  youth  and  health,  and  the 
woman's  soul  was  pure.  She  did  not  measure  nor 
did  she  attempt  to  understand  the  feeling  of  exalta- 
tion that  possessed  her.  It  was  a  species  of  intoxica- 
tion. She  saw  everything  about  her  in  a  kind  of 
golden  mist.  The  glory  of  the  light  seemed  to  have 
a  new  and  strange  brilliancy,  and  all  the  loveliness 
of  the  grass  and  the  fields  and  the  purple  hills  and 
the  blue  sky  seemed  more  lovely  than  it  had  ever 
been.  Her  step  was  light  and  her  heart  was  light. 
Clayton's  talk  was  full  of  pleasure  for  her  and  she 
had  always  an  answer,  and  many  a  laugh  they  had 
as  they  strode  along. 

She  had  never  gone  to  meeting  before  in  such  a 
fashion;  and,  if  she  had  considered,  the  contrast 
would  have  been  strange  between  the  high  spirits 
which  now  upbore  her  and  the  tranquillity  with  which 
she  had  been  used  to  traverse  this  road.  But  youth 
does  not  consider.  The  new  strange  joy  of  the 
present  moment  was  too  intense  to  be  dulled  by  se- 
rious reflections.  She  yielded  herself  to  it  com- 
pletely without  compunction  and  foreboding.  She 
could  not  have  expressed  the  fact  in  words;  she  did 
not  even  perceive  it  in  clearly  defined  shape,  but  into 
her  soul  had  come  that  wonderful  new  life  that  is 
born  of  love.  The  man  and  the  woman;  the  woman 
waiting  for  the  man  with  longing  that  she  may 
hardly  discern  to  be  longing.  The  man  eager  to  find 
that  one  woman  who  is  his  very  own  and  never  con- 
tented while  he  makes  quest  for  her.  They  meet, 


Plymouth  Meeting.  47 

and  in  the  silence,  behind  polite  conventions  and 
formal  talk,  regardless  of  plans  and  pre-arrange- 
ments,  in  defiance  sometimes  of  fair  reasonableness, 
each  soul  leaps  to  its  mate.  It  is  not  caprice,  it  is 
not  carnal  passion,  it  is  not  just  a  fancy  that  might, 
but  for  accident,  have  been  directed  elsewhere.  The 
wiser  man,  you  say,  would  have  chosen  better.  The 
woman  who  knew  the  world  would  have  been  critical 
and  indifferent.  The  prudent  would  have  considered 
circumstance.  Well,  folly  there  is  and  beyond  com- 
putation, in  such  matters;  folly  and  recklessness  and 
wickedness.  But  there  are  men  and  women,  and 
innumerable  multitudes  of  them,  who  meet  and  are 
sure  once  for  all  by  tokens  that  cannot  be  mistaken 
that  they  have  come  at  last  to  their  own.  Two,  pre- 
pared for  one  another.  Two  that  belong  together 
as  the  sea  belongs  to  the  earth.  Two  for  whom 
there  can  be  no  peace  but  in  union,  no  heaven  that 
will  bring  separation. 

Abby,  poor  girl,  could  not  on  her  way  to  meeting 
sound  the  depths  of  these  things;  but  as  she  came 
with  her  companion  to  the  meeting  house  enclosure 
and  thought  of  George  and  of  her  past  life,  she  felt 
as  if  all  that  life  had  been  lived  in  shadow  and  in 
dreariness. 

The  ragged  grass,  over-running  the  gravelled 
driveway,  was  soft  to  the  tread  as  Abby  and  Clayton 
slowly  passed  the  gateway  and  came  into  the  meet- 
ing-house yard.  About  the  enclosure  upon  the  two 
sides  whereby  the  turnpikes  ran  was  a  rough  wall 
of  stone  capped  by  wooden  roofing,  whilst  upon 
another  side  were  carriage-sheds,  ending  at  thfc  fence 


48  The  Quakeress. 

that  marked  the  line  where  the  burial-ground  began. 
The  old  meeting-house,  grey,  drawn  in  straight  lines, 
without  trace  of  ornament,  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  yard,  having  narrow  porches  upheld  by  pil- 
lars untouched  by  lathe  or  graving  tool  after  the 
saw  had  shaped  them.  Two  score  sycamore  trees 
reared  their  wide-girthed  trunks  from  the  sward 
and  far  aloft  waved  their  spotted  branches  in  the 
wind  while  their  foliage  covered  the  house  and  yard 
with  shade. 

A  few  groups  of  men  in  the  garb  of  Friends  lin- 
gered near  the  building  for  soft-spoken  words,  but 
of  those  that  drove  into  the  yard  the  larger  number 
helped  the  women  to  alight  and  then,  driving  to  the 
shed  and  tying  the  horses,  returned  at  once  to  seek 
a  place  in  the  meeting-house. 

Clayton  observed  that  there  were  no  equestrians 
as  he  had  been  used  to  see  them  swarming  about  the 
churches  in  Maryland  on  a  Sunday  morning.  There 
was  no  loud  conversation,  no  frivolity  in  the  dress  or 
demeanor  of  the  young  men.  The  boys  and  girls, 
the  young  men  and  the  maidens,  were  of  sober  coun- 
tenance, of  homely  garb,  of  quiet  behavior,  like  the 
elders.  Reverence  was  not  at  all  a  dominant  quality 
in  Clayton,  but  the  conduct  of  these  people  im- 
pressed him.  He  thought  of  the  Sunday  morning 
scenes  about  and  in  his  father's  church  at  home;  the 
planters  who  gathered  before  the  service  to  talk  of 
crops  and  politics;  the  young  men  who  prepared  for 
the  sanctuary  by  discussing  horse  races  and  hops  and 
by  flirting  with  the  girls  who  stood  about  and  passed 
to  and  fro  in  bright  attire.  The  way  of  the  Friends 


Plymouth  Meeting.  49 

seemed  even  to  him  to  be  better.  He  knew  he 
should  find  in  the  meeting-house  none  of  the  prepa- 
rations for  tobacco-chewers  that  were  in  every  pew 
in  the  church  at  home;  for  nobody  about  him  seemed 
to  be  using  tobacco.  These  plain,  noiseless  folk 
manifestly  had  come  together  for  worship;  for  wor- 
ship without  the  help  of  gauds  of  music,  of  color,  of 
trappings  of  furniture;  of  things  that  are  craved  as 
stimulants  by  the  carnal  mind.  For  them,  if  wor- 
ship were  to  be,  there  must  be  the  sheer  unaided 
uplift  of  the  secret  soul  toward  the  Holy  One  who 
seeth  in  secret  and  hearkens  to  the  unspoken  word. 

Clayton  did  not  think  closely  of  these  things,  but 
the  place  and  the  people  made  at  once  upon  him  an 
impression  of  solemnity;  but  indeed  if  he  had  re- 
flected, or  if  his  own  spirit  had  been  devout,  he  might 
have  discerned  in  the  serene  blue  of  that  cloudless 
sky,  in  the  glory  of  the  sunshine  that  covered  alt 
the  fields,  in  the  sweet  scent  of  the  grass,  the  tender 
softness  of  the  air,  and  the  blithe  songs  of  the  birds 
in  the  sycamore  trees,  beauty  enough  to  satisfy  the 
cravings  of  the  eye  that  was  hungriest  for  material 
loveliness. 

It  was  almost  a  wrong  to  enter  the  house  of  God 
that  bore  the  lowly  shingled  roof,  whilst  the  greater 
house  of  God  canopied  by  the  infinity  of  azure  and 
glorious  with  the  sunshine  lay  outside  the  walls  call- 
ing to  worship  of  Him  who  made  it. 

But  Friends  must  act  with  Friends,  and  so  Abby 
and  Clayton  came  to  a  door  upon  the  porch  of  the 
meeting-house,  and  Abby  turned  and  said  to  him, 
pointing: 


50  The  Quakeress. 

"Thee  must  enter  by  that  door,  at  the  other  end." 

"But,  may  I  not  go  in  and  sit  by  you?"  asked 
Clayton  in  surprise  and  disappointment. 

Abby  smiled  gently  upon  him  and  said: 

"That  is  not  the  way  of  Friends.  The  women  and 
the  men  are  separated.  Thee  cannot  sit  with  me  and 
thy  sister.  I  am  sorry  if  thee  is  not  pleased,  but  thee 
must  go  in  over  there." 

Then  she  turned  and  went  through  the  doorway 
with  Dolly;  and  Clayton,  looking  after  her,  could  see 
her  finding  a  place  upon  one  of  the  benches. 

Vexed  at  this  practice  of  separation,  which  seemed 
to  him  completely  unreasonable,  Clayton  sought  the 
door  to  the  men's  side  of  the  meeting  resolved,  if 
he  could,  to  occupy  a  place  where  he  could  look  at 
Abby  during  the  hour  of  worship. 

He  found  a  seat  from  which  he  could  see  her  plain- 
ly, or  could  glance  from  her  sweet  face  out  through 
the  open  doorway  to  the  green  yard  and  past  the 
high  sycamores  and  the  stone  wall  to  the  fields  that 
rolled  in  grassy  undulations  far  away  toward  the 
Connock  hills. 

He  removed  his  hat  as  he  sat  down.  Then,  per- 
ceiving that  he  alone  had  an  uncovered  head,  he 
doubted  for  a  moment  if  he  should  replace  his  hat, 
but  habit  was  strong  upon  him  and  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  do  that.  He  looked  about  him.  Over 
there  upon  the  women's  side  was  Abby.  She  did 
not  turn  her  head.  He  knew  that  she  would  not 
look  for  him,  or  look  about  her  at  all.  Next  to  the 
north  wall  three  benches  were  placed  one  behind 
another,  the  second  and  the  third  a  little  higher  than 


Plymouth  Meeting.  s* 

the  other.  Upon  these  sat  a  dozen  men,  some  of 
them  old,  all  of  them  venerable,  and  with  them,  he 
observed,  sat  George  Fotherly.  All  wore  hats  with 
wide  brims,  all  were  dressed  in  grey  or  brown.  All 
looked  straight  before  them,  excepting  that  two  had 
shut  their  eyes,  and  one,  of  advanced  years,  had  his 
hands  clasped  over  the  top  of  his  staff,  like  Jacob, 
and  his  chin  resting  upon  them.  He,  too,  had  shut 
out  the  world  behind  closed  eyelids.  Close  by  this 
group  of  elders,  but  separated  by  a  partition  opened 
four  feet  from  the  ground,  the  matrons  of  Israel  sat; 
the  women  elders,  some  in  deep  bonnets,  some  in 
bonnets  that  revealed  the  profile;  and  all  in  sober 
garments,  with  silken  kerchiefs  folded  over  the  breast. 
Abby  sat  directly  across  the  aisle  from  these  honorable 
women  and  when  Clayton  had  looked  at  the  men  and 
the  women,  at  the  bare  white  walls,  at  the  climb- 
ing blackness  of  the  pipe  that  ran  from  the  stove 
to  the  chimney-hole  near  to  the  ceiling,  at  the  un- 
painted,  severely  plain  benches,  and  at  the  glory  of 
the  out-of-doors,  he  turned  his  eyes  to  Abby  and  he 
kept  them  there. 

There  was  perfect  silence  in  the  room.  Through 
the  doorway  the  sunshine  came  and  shadowed  upon 
the  white  floor  the  flickering  of  the  leaves,  and  the 
sound  floated  in  of  the  rustling  of  the  foliage  upon 
the  sycamore.  Or  the  stamping  of  an  impatient 
horse  upon  the  earth  of  the  carriage-shed  was  heard, 
and  the  twittering  of  the  birds  among  the  branches 
of  the  trees  or  upon  the  grass.  One  venturesome 
sparrow  hopped  into  the  doorway  and  out  again  and 
soon  another  darted  in  upon  its  wings  and  flew 


52  The  Quakeress. 

hither  and  thither  in  bewilderment;  but  none  no- 
ticed it  excepting  Clayton,  until  presently  it  found  an 
open  window  and  plunged  out  again  to  seek  its  com- 
panions. 

A  dog  ran  in  from  the  highway  and  across  the 
green,  stopping  on  the  threshold  of  the  meeting- 
house, lifting  a  foreleg  and  looking  about  him  as  if 
doubtful  that  his  master  was  present,  and  then  a 
creaking  wagon  came  along  upon  the  road,  and  went 
slowly  by,  its  harsh  sound  magnified  by  the  silence. 
For  a  few  minutes  it  disturbed  the  peace  until  it 
turned  the  corner  of  the  road,  and  the  noise  fell 
away  into  softness  behind  the  barrier  of  the  carriage 
sheds. 

The  meeting  sat  in  quietness  for  a  long  time,  and 
Clayton,  quite  unused  to  such  methods  of  worship 
and  hardly  perceiving  indeed  that  there  was  wor- 
ship, began  to  wonder  if  anybody  would  do  anything 
to  disturb  the  monotony;  when  suddenly  he  heard  a 
shrill  voice  from  the  benches  of  the  elders,  announc- 
ing a  text  of  Scripture.  This  utterance  ended,  an 
old  man  of  unalluring  appearance  slowly  arose,  re- 
moved his  hat  and  began  to  preach.  At  first  Clayton 
felt  an  inclination  to  laugh.  The  speaker  had  little 
heed  for  the  requirements  of  grammar;  his  voice  was 
grating,  his  method  of  speech  a  queer  sniffling  into- 
nation, droning  on  through  a  sentence  which  finished 
in  a  drop  downward  and  a  leap  upward,  like  a 
Gregorian  chant.  The  matter  of  the  sermon  was  not 
very  much  better  than  the  manner,  and  Clayton  be- 
gan to  admire  the  vitality  of  the  spiritual  force  that 
could  find  sustenance  in  such  food. 


Plymouth  Meeting.  53 

The  speaker  ended  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun, 
and  silence  again  enveloped  the  meeting;  until  pres- 
ently a  man  who  looked  like  a  worn-out  farm  hand 
stood  up  and  with  closed  eyes  made  a  prayer  that 
thrilled  even  the  soul  of  the  young  Southerner,  who 
had  not  been  used  to  prayer. 

This  being  ended,  a  woman  arose  and  softly,  for 
three  minutes,  made  a  little  sermon  full  of  grace  and 
truth  and  not  wanting  in  eloquence  of  feeling. 

Then  George  Fotherly  got  upon  his  feet,  and  in 
his  deep  voice  said :  "Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill 
of  the  Lord  or  who  shall  stand  in  His  holy  place? 
Even  he  that  hath  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart." 

He  spoke  slowly,  with  clear  articulation,  in  flowing 
sentences,  without  gesture,  but  with  intonation  that 
interpreted  every  shade  of  meaning.  His  eyes  were 
wide  open,  but  one  perceived  that  he  saw  no  out- 
ward thing;  for  the  spirit  that  was  used  to  look 
through  them  was  turned  inward  upon  itself.  It 
hearkened  to  the  message  from  the  Divine  sources 
of  which  it  had  become  the  interpreter.  The  lips 
unconsciously  framed  into  words  the  promptings  of 
the  Spirit,  and  so  this  burly  farmer,  with  the  rough- 
ened face  and  the  calloused  hand,  filled  the  homely 
meeting-house  with  the  splendor  of  his  eloquence. 
He  would  not  have  owned  it  as  his  eloquence.  He 
had  no  art,  he  had  had  no  training  in  the  schools. 
But  he  had  spiritual  grace  that  found  in  his  musical 
voice,  his  strong,  handsome  countenance  and  his 
readiness  of  utterance  power  of  expression  that  is 
rare  even  among  the  most  gifted  of  the  Friends. 

Did  the  inspiration  to  choose  that  theme  come  to 


54  The  Quakeress. 

him  because  of  the  ride  to  the  meeting-house  with 
the  woman  whose  heart  he  discerned  to  be  not  wholly 
pure?  He  could  not  have  answered  that  question, 
perhaps.  But  as  he  sat  there  waiting  in  the  solitude 
and  silence  of  the  meeting  for  the  Light  to  shine 
through  the  opened  door  of  his  soul,  these  words  of 
the  Poet  of  Israel  poured  in  upon  him  and  seemed 
to  call  to  him  to  speak  to  the  people  of  God  and  to 
the  world's  people  present  of  the  purity  that  alone 
can  give  passport  into  the  Holy  Place. 

There  is,  he  said,  a  Holy  Place;  the  unclean  can- 
not walk  there.  To  them  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
would  be  thick  darkness.  It  is  darkness  here,  for 
what  to  the  profane  man  is  the  light  of  God's  pres- 
ence in  the  soul?  He  cannot  discern  it.  He  scoffs 
at  it.  Even  here,  if  it  be  hallowed  by  the  Divine  pres- 
ence, the  soul  is  the  ante-chamber  of  the  celestial 
palaces.  It  is  then  holy.  When  that  presence  is 
shut  out  then  there  is  black  night.  The  pure  in  heart 
shall  have  the  vision  of  the  Almighty  because  He  is 
pure — nay,  he  is  Purity  itself,  and  like  ever  goes  to 
like,  the  clean  to  the  clean,  the  unclean  to  the  un- 
clean. 

The  hands?  They  cannot  sin.  They  are  but  dead 
matter.  They  are  tools  for  doing  the  work  of  God 
or  the  tasks  of  Satan.  The  spiritual  nature  wields 
them  as  its  implements.  No  sin  was  ever  done  but 
the  soul  did  it.  First  and  last  and  forever,  the  power 
to  choose  between  good  and  evil  is  there  and  there 
alone.  When  the  heart  is  pure  the  hands  are  clean. 
There  can  be  no  separation.  To  clean  the  hands 
alone,  to  make  action  and  the  duties  of  life  right,  is 


Plymoutk  Meeting.  ss 

impossible.  The  soul  must  be  filled  full  of  God  and 
then  all  the  members  and  all  the  life  will  be  His.  The 
man  to  whom  this  has  come,  he  and  he  only  may  as- 
cend the  hill  of  the  Lord — he  has  ascended  it.  But 
the  loftiest  summit  perhaps  lies  beyond.  There  is  a 
glory  for  the  freed  spirit  that  it  hath  not  entered  into 
the  heart  of  man  to  conceive. 

In  such  fashion  the  Quaker  farmer  spoke  with  his 
grey  eyes  open,  but  open  only  as  if  he  were  in  a 
trance.  And  all  the  people  hearkened,  some  with 
high  exultation  and  some  perhaps  with  shame  and 
mourning  and  with  fear  lest  they  might  never  scale 
that  height. 

Clayton  listened  to  the  preacher  at  first  with  some 
curiosity,  then  with  indifference;  and  finally  fixing 
his  eyes  and  his  mind  wholly  upon  Abby,  George's 
words  passed  over  the  young  Southerner  without 
making  an  impression  upon  his  consciousness.  He 
did  not  even  hear  them. 

Dolly  followed  the  preacher  with  some  sharpness 
of  interest.  At  the  end  she  could  have  given  a  full 
outline  of  the  discourse,  but  for  her  it  had  absolutely 
no  significance.  To  have  ears  and  to  hear  not  is  to 
baffle  the  mightiest  gospeller.  While  she  sat  and 
watched  George  and  caught  his  words,  her  mind  was 
busy  with  the  music  of  his  voice,  with  the  play  of  his 
intellect,  with  the  manly  beauty  of  his  countenance, 
and  with  the  large,  powerful,  finely  proportioned  bulk 
of  his  body.  Intellectual  force  and  physical  force, 
and  grace  with  force,  were  there;  and  on  the  woman's 
side  were  acute  sensibility  to  these  qualities  and  ad- 
miration for  them  that  kindled  and  flamed  while  she 


The  Quakeress. 


looked  and  listened.  The  lessons  that  the  preacher 
teaches  usually  miss  those  that  need  them  most. 
Spiritual  things  are  spiritually  discerned.  You  must 
want  to  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord  before  you 
can  care  to  learn  how  to  do  it. 

As  for  Abby,  sitting  over  there  on  the  woman's 
side,  with  her  hands  meekly  folded  upon  her  lap  ajid 
her  eyes  downcast,  she  had  been  struggling  to  keep 
her  mind  away  from  Clayton,  until  George's  familiar 
voice  reached  her  and  then  she  heard  him  with  her 
heart.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  if  he  were  soaring  away 
from  her  and  speaking  of  things  unknown,  and  some- 
times, as  she  thought  of  his  love  for  her,  she  had  a 
dim  sense  of  guiltiness.  To  feel  like  a  sinner  seems 
to  be  the  sign  and  token  of  saintship. 

There  was  silence  again  when  George  ended  his 
discourse,  and  presently  the  two  oldest  men  in  the 
gallery  reached  out  and  clasped  hands  and  the  meet- 
ing was  ended. 

Clayton  darted  quickly  to  the  door  whence  Abby 
came  out,  and,  neglecting  his  sister,  who  was  caught 
in  the  crowd  in  the  house,  they  strolled  through  the 
gateway  to  the  road  and  thus  homeward.  So  George 
found  Dolly  waiting  for  him  and  there  was  no  escape 
from  taking  her  with  him.  While  he  went  to  the 
shed  for  the  horse,  he  found  that  his  vexation  was 
strangely  mingled  with  pleasure.  He  would  rather 
go  without  her  and  he  would  have  done  so  with  some 
sort  of  stern  satisfaction;  but  now  that  he  must  go 
with  her  he  was  less  than  half  sorry,  and  ashamed 
within  himself  that  he  was  not  sorry  altogether. 

But  she  did  not  guess  his  feeling  in  one  way  or  the 


Plymouth  Meeting.  57 

other,  and  again  she  began  the  pleasant  talk  as  they 
drove  down  the  turnpike.  "It  was  so  nice  a  meet- 
ing," she  said,  "and  so  solemn  a  method  of  worship," 
and  then  she  was  bold  enough  to  add :  "And  the  ser- 
mon was  so  good."  To  which  George,  half  savagely, 
replied:  "Satan  said  so  to  the  preacher  when  he 
ended." 

So  she  spoke  no  more  of  the  meeting  but  of  lighter 
things,  and  George  listened  and  liked  the  talk  and  felt 
that  the  talker  was  charming.  Thus  they  came  again 
to  the  summit  of  the  road,  where  the  wind  blew  in 
strongly  from  the  gap  in  the  hills  at  Spring  Mill,  and 
a  gust  of  it  threw  off  Dolly's  hat  and  George  caught 
it  as  it  came  to  him  and  held  it  for  a  moment  while 
she,  arranging  her  hair,  prepared  to  put  it  on  again. 

She  offered  him  her  hand  when  at  the  gate  of  the 
parsonage  she  bade  him  good-bye  and  looked  at  him 
strongly;  and  when  he  had  driven  across  the  river' 
and  up  the  hill-side  to  his  farm,  he  led  the  horse  to 
the  stable  and  put  him  away.  Then  climbing  to  his 
bedroom,  he  flung  himself  upon  a  chair  and,  with 
his  hands  clenched  upon  his  face,  prayed  that  he  who 
by  the  Spirit  had  preached  for  righteousness,  might 
by  the  power  of  that  same  Spirit  be  forgiven  and  be 
delivered  from  the  horrible  power  of  unrighteousness. 


"It  was  my  first  meeting,"  said  Clayton,  as  he  and 
Abby  strolled  homeward.  "It  was  decorous,  but 
don't  you  find  it  dull?" 

"One  has  to  be  spiritually-minded  to  like  it." 

"I  fear  I  am  not," 


58  The  Quakeress. 

"You  must  try,"  responded  Abby. 

"I  will,"  he  said,  but  he  did  not  mean  to.  "How- 
ever, I  like  it  ever  so  much  better  than  Uncle  Pon- 
der's  services.  You  can  sit  still  all  the  time,  and 
then  the  preacher  didn't  plead  for  the  Jews." 

"George  is  such  a  great  preacher,"  said  Abby 
rather  proudly. 

"Do  you  say  he  made  no  preparation?  That  he 
did  not  know  what  he  should  say  before  he  came 
there?  Not  a  word  or  a  thought?" 

"I  am  sure  he  did  not." 

"Wonderful !"  exclaimed  Clayton,  who  was  willing 
to  have  Abby  think  him  an  attentive  listener.  "Won- 
derful, too,  that  you  could  all  worship  while  sitting 
there  in  silence.  I  know  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  worldly  things." 

They  stayed  for  a  while  at  the  hill-crest,  looking 
out  on  the  one  hand  through  the  gap  where  the 
river  cleaves  the  hills  as  it  runs  southward,  and  on 
the  other  hand  across  the  wide  sweep  of  the  valley 
where  beyond  the  steeples  of  the  distant  county 
town  may  be  seen  the  faint  blue  of  the  Chester  hills. 
And  then  they  came  again  down  the  street  and  to 
Abby's  home  and  she  bade  him  farewell. 

"I  think  the  Friends  are  lovely,"  he  said  when  he 
parted  from  her;  and  she  sought  her  chamber  in  a 
glow  of  happiness  to  recall  his  face  and  the  tones  of 
his  voice  again  and  again,  and  to  think  of  every  word 
that  he  had  said. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
At  the  Grey  House. 

ON  Monday  afternoon  Clayton  and  Dolly  visited 
Abby  and  at  her  suggestion  the  three  went  to  the 
lawn  at  the  back  of  the  house  to  play  croquet.  Be- 
fore they  had  finished  the  first  game,  George  Foth- 
erly  came  galloping  up  the  street  upon  a  stout  bay 
horse,  making  a  fine  figure.  He  halted  by  the  Wool- 
ford  gate  and  dismounting  went  in  to  keep  an  ap- 
pointment with  Abby's  father.  Of  late  there  had 
been  a  money-trouble  for  Isaac,  and  George  had  come 
to  him  a  month  or  two  before,  as  he  had  done  more 
than  once  in  preceding  years,  to  lend  a  helping  hand. 

Isaac  Woolford,  like  his  father  and  his  grandfather, 
was  a  manufacturer  of  iron.  At  Spring  Mill,  just  a 
mile  down  the  river  from  Connock,  he  had  a  blast- 
furnace wherein  the  ore  and  the  limestone  of  the 
neighborhood  and  the  coal  from  the  upper  valley 
were  heaped  and  fused  and  melted.  Isaac  had  some 
skill  in  the  business  of  smelting  ore,  but  he  was  not 
dexterous  as  a  commercial  man  and  he  had  involved 
himself  in  difficulties.  The  panic  of  1857  almost 
ruined  him,  but  he  struggled  valiantly  to  maintain 
himself  and  had  fairly  succeeded  in  reaching  moder- 
ate prosperity,  when  the  civil  war  flamed  into  exist- 
ence. Other  men,  with  clearer  vision,  found  in  the 
outbreak,  which  sent  prices  of  commodities  of  all 
kinds  flying  upward,  an  opportunity  that  gave  them 

(59) 


60  The  Quakeress. 

riches.  But  it  was  Isaac's  misfortune  to  have  been 
enticed  into  a  contract  to  supply  pig-iron  for  a  year 
to  one  of  his  customers  at  prices  still  depressed  by 
the  influences  of  1857;  and  now,  with  coal  and  lime- 
stone and  ore  and  labor  becoming  more  and  more 
costly  day  after  day,  there  seemed  a  fair  prospect  that 
his  losses  of  the  panic-year  would  be  surpassed  by 
those  of  a  year  of  swift-rising  values.  He  was  de- 
spondent and  pressed  for  money.  Always  he  had 
found  in  George  a  sympathetic  friend  and  helper, 
and  a  man,  moreover,  who  knew  how  to  lend  money 
and  to  deal  in  money  without  finding  his  heart  grow 
hard.  A  rare  man  indeed ! 

George,  but  a  month  or  two  before  this  visit  to 
Isaac,  had  bought  from  him,  with  indifference  for 
everything  but  Isaac's  convenience,  a  tract  of  farm- 
land of  sixty  acres  on  the  Ridge  Turnpike.  It  seems 
to  be  in  the  nature  of  things  that  when  a  man  does 
not  care  if  his  bargain  be  good  or  bad  it  usually  turns 
out  to  be  good  to  a  remarkable  degree;  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that  George  had  not  owned  the  tract  long  be- 
fore he  discovered  that  much  of  it  was  underlaid  by 
rich  deposits  of  the  very  ore  and  limestone  that 
Isaac  needed  for  his  furnace.  Isaac  was  not  the  kind 
of  man  to  make  complaint  of  his  hard  fortune  in 
losing  this  mass  of  wealth;  nor  indeed  was  George 
Fotherly  the  kind  of  man  to  regard  with  pleasure 
the  profit  that  had  thus  come  to  him  unexpectedly. 
His  religion  was  always  in  good  working  order  for 
dealing  with  worldly  things ;  and  while  he  was  a  not- 
able preacher,  he  could  practice  even  better  than  he 
could  preach.  Thus,  in  this  particular  case  he  felt 


At  the  Grey  House.  61 

an  obligation  of  religion,  but  hardly  less  imperative, 
an  obligation  of  heredity,  to  stand  fast  by  Isaac;  for 
if  any  Fotherly  had  ever  done  a  thing  that  was  not 
clean  and  wholesome,  there  was  no  record  of  it  or 
memory  of  it  in  the  county. 

None  of  the  Fotherleys  had  genius  or  even  what 
is  called  talent.  None  of  them  had  ever  written 
books,  or  performed  any  large  public  service.  None 
had  ever  showed  skill  in  science  or  in  the  fine  arts. 
The  name  did  not  appear  often  in  the  newspapers. 
There  had  been  in  the  family  no  great  capitalists,  no 
daring  adventurers,  no  organizers  of  huge  industrial 
enterprises.  They  were  quiet  people,  busy  with 
their  own  modest  concerns,  thrifty  but  generous; 
given  to  hospitality;  full  of  kindly  interest  in  the 
troubles  of  their  neighbors;  always  regarding  the 
spoken  promise  as  the  equivalent  in  value  of  the  writ- 
ten bond;  always  accepting  spirit  as  well  as  letter 
of  their  contracts;  with  no  expressed  animosities; 
charitable  in  judgment  when  they  judged  at  all;  re- 
strained of  speech;  better  at  listening  than  at  relat- 
ing; and  with  a  habit  of  language  which  excluded 
superlatives,  expletives  and  slang;  having  the  plain 
Yea,  Yea  and  Nay,  Nay  for  its  model. 

But  their  shining  quality  was  that  uncommon  thing 
misnamed  common  sense.  This  was  the  guide  for 
their  judgment,  their  words  and  their  conduct,  and 
it  was  always  at  their  command,  in  every  emergency, 
an  instrument  to  point  them  the  way  to  justice,  to 
peace,  to  business  success  and  to  the  high  esteem  of 
their  fellow  men.  To  possess  that  quality  is  a  better 
thing  than  to  have  all  the  powers  of  genius  and  the 


62  The  Quakeress. 

fame  that  rings  around  the  world.  The  man  who 
has  it  comes  close  to  the  secret  of  true  blessedness 
in  this  troublesome  world. 

Isaac  had  been  sitting  upon  his  porch  waiting  for 
George,  and  as  he  saw  the  big  farmer  come  swiftly 
up  the  street,  both  man  and  horse  having  the  look  of 
prosperity,  he  manfully  thrust  down  and  out  of  his 
soul  the  mean  feeling  of  envy  that  arose  in  him.  To 
the  half-crushed  man  who  bears  the  growing  burden 
of  a  business  that  will  not  succeed,  the  unweighted 
freedom  of  him  who  has  been  victorious  in  his  af- 
fairs seems  to  have  an  element  of  unfairness.  To  pay 
when  you  can  pay  is  so  very  easy  that  he  who  can 
discharge  all  obligation  with  a  check  can  rarely  meas- 
ure the  misery,  sometimes  the  despair,  of  the  man 
who  cannot  pay. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  George,"  said  Isaac,  clasp- 
ing George's  hand.  "Sit  down." 

There  was  clicking  of  the  croquet  balls,  and  laugh- 
ter and  pleasant  talk  upon  the  other  side  of  the  house 
as  the  two  men  drew  into  the  far  corner  of  the  porch ; 
but  George  did  not  hear  the  sounds;  his  mind  was 
rilled  with  the  matter  of  his  errand.  Isaac  did  not 
know  what  it  was;  nor  could  he  guess  when  George 
wrote  to  him  to  ask  him  to  be  at  home  this  afternoon. 

He  waited  with  some  curiosity  for  the  visitor  to 
tell  the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

George  did  not  make  haste.  He  spoke  of  the 
crops,  of  the  weather,  even  of  the  later  war  news, 
striking  the  arm  of  his  chair  lightly  with  his  open 
hand  meanwhile,  and  looking  out  upon  the  street 
or  up  at  the  sky.  At  last  he  settled  himself  back  in 


At  tke  Grey  House.  63 

his  chair,  folded  his  fingers  and  put  his  thumbs  to- 
gether, and  then,  half  shyly,  as  if  he  found  it  some- 
what difficult  to  open  the  subject,  he  said: 

"Does  thee  know,  Isaac,  that  we  found  ore  and 
limestone  under  the  Ridge  tract  that  I  bought  of 
thee?" 

"Thomas  Shorter  tells  me  thee  did." 

"The  ore  is  rich,  too,  they  say.  I  know  nothing 
about  ore  myself." 

"It  is  good  ore,"  answered  Isaac.  "Thee  will  give 
me  a  price  for  it.  I  can  use  all  thee  can  take  out." 

"Hah !"  exclaimed  George,  removing  his  broad 
hat  and  passing  his  hand  across  his  white  forehead. 
"Thee  would  not  care  to  buy  back  the  tract  from  me, 
would  thee?" 

Isaac  smiled  in  a  sad  way  and  answered: 

"Even  if  I  were  willing  to  take  that  advantage  of 
thee,  I  no  longer  have  the  money."  He  restrained 
an  impulse  to  say  "Nor  credit  either." 

"Thee  does  not  think  I  knew  the  beds  were  there, 
does  thee,  when  I  bought  the  tract?" 

"Thee  knows  I  have  no  such  thought,  George. 
No;  surely  not." 

"No  suspicion  of  it  was  in  my  mind,"  said  George. 
"I  did  not  covet  the  tract,  Isaac;  thee  understood 
that?" 

"Fully.     Thee  took  it  for  my  convenience." 

"Well,  there  is  no  favor,  either,  for  I  thought  it 
worth  the  money." 

"And  so  it  was." 

"And  more,   much  more,"  answered   George. 

"To  him  that  hath  shall  be  given,"  said  Isaac,  with 


64  The  Quakeress. 

the  least  flavor  of  bitterness  in  his  mind,  but  not  in 
his  tone.  "But  I  have  no  thought  to  complain.  Thee 
is  a  just  man,  and  thee  has  dealt  most  liberally  with 
me." 

George  seemed  to  be  seeking  for  the  best  words 
in  which  to  express  himself. 

"But  I  am  not  a  just  man,  Isaac,  if  I  buy  from 
thee  for  a  low  price  that  which  is  worth  a  high  price 
if  thee  had  known  the  truth.  Suppose  there  had 
been  a  gold  mine  upon  the  property?" 

"The  law  would  give  it  to  thee,  and  I  would  ap- 
prove the  law  and  have  no  ill  feeling  at  thy  good  for- 
tune." 

"Thee  and  I,  Isaac,  try  to  obey  a  higher  and  better 
law.  How  would  the  Golden  Rule  work,  does  thee 
suppose,  in  this  case  between  thee  and  me." 

Isaac  laughed  lightly  and  answered : 

"That  is  a  rule  between  two  men.  We  are  two 
and  I  say  to  thee  plainly  now,  if  thee  asks  me  to 
appeal  to  the  Rule,  I  would  have  thee  keep  the  tract 
and  sell  me  the  ore  at  a  fair  price." 

"I  won't  do  it !"  answered  George,  sharply. 

"Thee  has  some  fantastic  notion  in  thy  head?  I 
cannot  buy  back  the  land  from  thee." 

"Yes  thee  can." 

"No;  as  I  tell  thee,  I  have  spent  the  money;  spent 
it  long  ago." 

George  put  his  hand  into  the  inside  breast-pocket 
of  his  coat  and  withdrew  a  package  of  papers. 

"Thee  can  buy  it  and  thee  must.  Here  is  a  deed 
transferring  the  tract  to  thee  again  and  here  is  a 
mortgage  for  the  money  I  paid  to  thee.  It  will  be  a 


At  the  Grey  House.  65 

loan.  Thee  will  owe  it  to  me,  and  thee  will  save 
enough  on  the  value  of  the  ore  to  pay  the  interest. 
Will  thee  agree  to  this?" 

Isaac's  hand  was  over  his  face.  For  a  moment  he 
could  not  speak. 

"Yes,  George,"  he  then  said. 

"Very  well ;  then  we  will  record  the  deed  and  thee 
will  sign  the  mortgage.  No,  No !  thee  must  not 
thank  me,  Isaac.  It  would  be  infamous  for  me  to 
take  thy  property  for  almost  nothing.  Let  us  go  into 
the  house  and  find  pen  and  ink;  and  thee  must  cheer 
up.  my  friend;  God  will  not  forsake  thee  so  long  as 
thou  art  a  just  man." 

The  two  entered  the  house,  and  the  game  upon 
the  lawn  became  merrier. 

Mrs.  Ponder,  with  knitting  in  her  hands,  sat  upon 
the  side-porch  of  the  parsonage  watching  the  croquet 
players  beyond  the  fence,  and  after  a  while  Dr.  Pon- 
der, returning  from  some  pastoral  calls,  came 
through  the  front  gate  and  sat  beside  her.  Mrs. 
Ponder's  mind  was  highly  charged  with  the  thought 
that  had  occupied  her  while  she  sat  alone. 

"Clayton,  birdie,  seems  to  be  quite  enchanted  by 
Abby,  and  she,  in  her  quiet  way,  appears  by  no 
means  indifferent  to  him.  It  would  be  a  lovely  match 
and  of  such  great  advantage  to  Clayton  on  the  one 
hand  and  to  Abby  on  the  other." 

Dr.  Ponder  addressed  his  mind  to  the  subject,  thus 
for  the  first  time  presented  to  him.  He  clasped  his 
hands  over  the  rotundity  of  his  waistcoat,  rotundity 
out  of  all  proportion  to  his  salary  of  eight  hundred 
dollars,  and  meditated.  He  was  a  short,  chubby  man, 


66  The  Quakeress. 

with  thick  bushy  grey  hair  and  small  dark  eyes 
which  blinked  and  twinkled  beneath  his  hat-rim  while 
his  mind  worked. 

"It  would  steady  Clayton  and  settle  him,  and  it 
might  be  the  means  of  bringing  Abby  into  the 
Church,"  added  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"Clayton  is  not  in  it  himself,"  responded  the  doc- 
tor, not  fully  contented  to  have  indirect  agencies  at 
work  to  accomplish  a  feat  that  he  aspired  to  do  sin- 
gle-handed. "And  he  went  to  meeting  with  her  last 
Sunday,  in  disrespect  for  me  and  for  the  church." 

"It  was  novelty — the  novelty  of  Friends'  methods 
of  worship  and  the  charm  of  Abby's  companionship." 

"But,  wife,  how  can  Clayton's  indifference,  if  not 
clear  unbelief,  and  Abby's  Quakerism,  put  together, 
work  out  into  churchmanship  ?  I  can't  see  it." 

"Clayton's  training  and  instincts  are  for  the 
Church.  He  lacks  piety.  Abby  has  piety,  but  no 
training  or  instinct  for  the  Church — not  yet,  at  any 
rate.  Love  may  fuse  the  two  and  make  one  good 
churchman." 

"If  it  would  do  any  good  to  call  them  over  here 
and  read  to  them  that  sermon  of  mine  on  the  Repos- 
itory of  Faith,  I  might  do  it,  or  had  I  not  better  speak 
to  each  of  them  separately?" 

"No,  birdie,  let  unassisted  nature  do  her  work  un- 
til the  time  is  ripe  for  interference.  He  must  win  her 
first,  and  really  he  seems  to  be  carrying  on  a  vigor- 
ous campaign.  I  wish  Dolly's  had  as  bright  an  out- 
look." 

"Who  have  you  in  your  mind  for  her?" 

"If  George  Fotherly  could  fancy  her,  he  would — " 


At  the  Grey  House.  67 

"My  dear!  Impossible!  She  would  have  to  join 
the  Quakers;  and  the  conversion  of  Abby  with  the 
perversion  of  Dolly  would  leave  us  just  where  we  are. 
After  all  our  toil  and  prayers  the  thing  would  only 
come  out  even." 

"Possibly  Dolly  might  swing  George  around." 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Ponder,  almost  angrily. 
"That  man  is  as  set  and  determined  in  his  unscriptu- 
ral  views  as  if  he  were  George  Fox  himself.  I  gave 
him  up  long  ago  to  his  strong  delusions.  Think  of 
a  man  who  actually  denies  that  there  is  any  warrant 
for  my  considering  myself  a  priest  and  challenges  me 
to  produce  from  the  New  Testament  any  authority 
for  it!" 

"Did  you  produce  it?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"We  needn't  go  into  that  now.  It  is  enough  for 
me  to  say  that  there  is  actually  an  element  of  ab- 
surdity in  the  notion  that  Dolly  can  bring  that  stub- 
born man  over,  and  even  more  in  the  idea  that  he 
can  make  a  Quaker  of  her.  I  wish  she  were  a  better 
church-woman  and  would  come  to  her  own  church 
instead  of  wandering  off  to  meeting  as  Clayton  did." 

"She  went  to  hear  George  preach." 

"That's  it!  Went  to  hear  that  unordained  young 
man  promulgate  error  while  her  own  uncle,  set  apart 
for  the  sacred  ministry,  was  preaching  a  sermon  which, 
if  I  do  say  it  myself  in  the  privacy  of  the  conjugal  re- 
lation, had  true  unction  and  would  have  convinced 
any  fair  mind  that  there  is  nothing  but  darkness  out- 
side the  Apostolic  succession.  I  still  think  it  might 


68  The  Quakeress. 


perhaps  be  serviceable  if  I  should  read  that  sermon 
at  family  worship  to-night.  The  seed  ought  to  be 
sown.  You  might  ask  Abby  to  come  in  with  us." 

"It  would  be  inopportune,  birdie.  Let  us  wait 
If  Abby  is  to  come  into  the  family  I  think  we  can 
manage  her,  but  as  for  George — " 

"George!"  said  Dr.  Ponder  impatiently.  "There 
is  no  hope  for  m'm." 

"There  he  is  now!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ponder. 
"With  Mr.  Woolford.  Perhaps  Dolly  has  some  at- 
traction for  him,  after  all." 

When  the  business  had  been  done  between 
George  and  Isaac  within  the  house,  Isaac  led  his 
guest  through  the  back  door  of  the  hall  to  a  little 
porch  which  snuggled  there  in  the  shade.  He  had 
not  thought  of  the  players  upon  the  lawn,  but  had 
considered  only  that  he  and  George  might  escape 
the  afternoon  warmth  and  glare  of  the  front  porch. 

The  players  did  not  observe  the  two  men  as  they 
came  out  of  the  door,  and  while  the  game  was  con- 
tinued with  much  glee,  Isaac  and  George  stood  and 
watched  it.  Presently  Abby  looked  up,  after  strik- 
ing a  ball,  and  found  George's  big  eyes  fastened 
upon  her.  They  seemed  to  penetrate  to  her  soul. 
She  spoke  sweetly  to  him,  but  her  cheek  flushed  and 
she  tried  to  cover  her  feeling  by  returning  to  the 
game  and  pretending  interest  in  it.  Then  Dolly 
saw  him  and  fluttered  her  hand  toward  him  in  a 
light  way  and  Clayton  looked  up  and  recognized  the 
presence  of  the  man  whom  he  knew  only  as  a 
preacher. 

For  a  few  moments  longer  the  game  went  on. 


» 


At  the  Grey  House.  69 

Isaac  withdrew  to  the  house  upon  an  errand  of  some 
kind  and  George  sat  upon  a  rustic  seat  to  watch  the 
players. 

He  had  not  expected  to  find  them  here.  Busy 
with  the  thought  of  his  transaction  with  Isaac,  he 
had  hardly  reflected  that  he  might  meet  Abby;  but 
here  he  was  in  the  presence  of  both  Abby  and  Dolly, 
and  here  was  that  youth  who  had  taken  from  him 
on  First-day  his  accustomed  companion  in  his  jour- 
ney to  the  meeting-house.  He  had  no  pang  of  jeal- 
ousy. He  did  not  fear.  If  peril  for  him  had  been 
suggested  by  that  companionship  he  would  at  that 
moment  have  put  the  thought  away  as  fool'ish.  He 
could  not  have  believed  it  at  all  possible  that  this 
worldly  and  apparently  frivolous  young  man  should 
come  between  him  and  the  steadfast  Quaker  girl, 
of  whose  love  for  him  he  felt  very  sure. 

No,  it  was  not  jealousy  of  Clayton  that  engaged 
his  mind  while  he  sat  there  an  onlooker  of  the  play. 
There  was,  rather,  a  confused  sense  of  his  pure  deep 
love  for  Abby  and  of  the  undeniable  attractiveness 
of  the  other  woman.  The  feeling  that  flung  him  into 
his  chamber  on  the  First-day  morning  to  wrestle 
with  evil  had  become  a  kind  of  dim  memory.  It  had 
spent  its  force  and  here  he  was  again  face  to  face 
with  the  very  enticement  from  which  he  had  wished 
to  separate  himself  upon  the  ride  on  First-day,  and 
which  had  then  filled  him  with  alarm.  Just  now,  it 
seemed  less  dreadful.  The  girl  had  grace;  her  laugh 
was  charming;  her  figure  was  graceful;  her  face  was 
full  of  innocent  beauty;  she  had  about  her  a  sugges- 
tion of  fervor  which  made  Abby  appear  cold. 


7°  TKe  Quakeress. 

He  had  an  impulse  to  rise  and  go  away;  but  the 
argument  for  remaining  where  he  was  had  force. 
Courtesy  to  Isaac,  regard  for  Abby,  consideration 
for  her  guests,  the  gracelessness  of  an  unexplained 
retreat,  all  appealed  to  him  to  yield  to  that  strong 
temptation  to  stay  that  was  supplied  by  contempla- 
tion of  Dolly's  personality.  He  determined  to  lin- 
ger for  a  while. 

Then  the  game  ended  and  Abby  introduced  him 
to  Clayton,  and  Dolly  greeted  him  as  if  he  were  an 
old  friend.  To  breathe  a  while  and  for  George's 
sake,  they  laid  down  their  mallets  and  Abby  and 
Clayton  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  porch  whilst  Dolly 
took  her  seat  upon  the  bench  by  George. 

She  began  at  once  to  urge  him  to  join  the  game, 
and  when  Abby  and  Clayton  added  their  entreat)' 
he  stood  up,  half  consenting  as  they  gathered  about 
him. 

"And  you  will  be  my  partner,  won't  you?"  de- 
manded Dolly,  taking  hold  of  a  button  upon  his  coat, 
as  if  to  fasten  herself  upon  him. 

He  agreed  and  they  walked  together  to  their 
places,  George  feeling  as  if  that  First-day  sermon 
of  his  were  away  off  somewhere  in  the  half-forgotten 
past. 

"George  is  actually  going  to  play  with  them," 
said  Mrs.  Ponder,  "and  on  Dolly's  side." 

Dr.  Ponder  looked  and  made  up  his  mind  that 
Dolly  should  not  go  to  bed  that  night  without  hear- 
ing from  him  at  least  a  part  of  his  famous  sermon  on 
the  errors  of  the  Quakers. 

George    played    the  game,  not  with  the  skill    of 


At  the  Grey  House.  71 

practice,  but  with  the  certainty  of  a  strong  hand  and 
a  clear-seeing  eye.  Dolly  openly  exulted  in  the  accu- 
racy of  his  strokes,  and  when  he  and  she  were  out 
of  turn  she  stood  by  him  and  spoke  to  him  with  the 
freedom  of  an  old  companion,  so  that  George  could 
hardly  help  yielding  to  her  tacit  demand  upon  him 
for  reciprocal  freedom  and  friendliness.  Abby's  man- 
ner towards  him  had  some  small  measure  of  re- 
straint, for  she  was  not  artful  enough  to  conceal  her 
feeling  that  a  barrier  had  come  between  them.  She 
was  half  afraid  when  she  considered  in  her  soul  how 
vast  a  change  had  come  upon  her  life  within  the  past 
few  days. 

When  the  game  was  over  Mrs.  Ponder  summoned 
Dolly  and  Abby  to  the  parsonage  and  George  and 
Clayton,  upon  Isaac's  invitation,  came  to  sit  with 
him  upon  the  little  porch. 

It  was  almost  inevitable  that,  when  Clayton  spoke 
of  his  Southern  birth  and  of  his  home  in  the  South, 
the  conversation  should  turn  at  last  to  the  subject 
of  the  war. 

Clayton  could  hardly  suppress  an  expression  of 
the  insolent  disdain  with  which  some  of  the  people 
of  that  region,  just  at  that  time,  were  used  to  regard 
the  North. 

"My  people,"  he  said,  "do  not  believe  the  North 
will  really  fight." 

"They  seem  to  be  preparing  in  earnest  to  do  so," 
said  Isaac.  "Friends  do  not  favor  war,  but  thee  may 
perhaps  deceive  thyself  about  this  matter." 

"We  are  ready  for  it,  in  any  case,"  said  Clayton. 
"The  Southron  is  a  born  fighter.  We  are  proud  of 
it." 


Tke  Quakeress. 


"And  is  fighting  the  best  thing?"  inquired  George 
Fotherly. 

"It  is  a  good  thing,  or  rather  perhaps  a  necessary 
thing,  sometimes,"  answered  Clayton. 

"Is  there  nothing  higher  than  to  vanquish  thine 
enemy  and  to  tear  out  his  heart?" 

"It  is  the  manly  way." 

"I  know  of  something  better,"  said  George. 

"What  is  it?" 

"To  vanquish  thyself.  To  conquer  thine  own 
spirit." 

"It  is  the  coward's  refuge,"  said  Clayton,  almost 
with  contempt. 

"I  think  not,"  responded  George.  "To  fight 
is  sometimes  the  refuge  of  the  worst  cowards. 
You  cannot  conquer  a  man's  soul.  Can  thee  prove 
slavery  right  by  killing  me?  or  can  thee  con- 
vince me  that  it  is  right  by  forcing  me  to  fly  from 
thee?" 

"No,"  said  Clayton,  "but  where  you  think  a  cer- 
tain policy  is  right  and  I  think  it  wrong  and  neither 
of  us  will  yield,  the  appeal  to  force  is  necessary  if 
one  policy  or  the  other  is  to  be  put  into  operation. 
You  can't  convince  a  thief  by  argument  that  hon- 
esty is  best,  but  you  can  lock  him  up  where  he  can't 
steal." 

"Is  not  the  way  of  the  savage  and  the  brute,  just 
the  way  thee  praises?  Fight  it  out  and  keep  your 
hand  on  the  throat  of  the  beaten  man!" 

"It  is  the  method  of  the  savage,"  replied  Clayton, 
"because  no  other  method  is  possible.  The  instinct 
of  the  race  impels  to  it.  Why  shouldn't  I  hold  you 


At  the  Grey  House.  73 

by  the  throat,  when,  if  I  let  you  go,  you  will  throttle 
me?" 

"Has  thee  ever  tried  forgiveness?" 

"No,  and  I  never  will  try  it  where  I  have  been 
wronged." 

"Well,"  said  George,  "thee  will  forgive  me  if  I 
say  to  thee  plainly  thee  has  yet  much  to  learn.  How 
deeply  has  thee  looked  into  spiritual  things?  Be- 
lieve me,  there  are  wonders  there.  If  thee  will  con- 
sider thee  will  find,  I  think,  that  the  hater  is  the 
chief  victim  of  his  own  hate,  and  that  the  sweetness 
of  revenge  is  bitterness  compared  with  the  joy  of 
conquering  thyself." 

"Thy  fondness  for  war  has  not  led  thee  into  the 
rebel  army,"  remarked  Isaac. 

Clayton's  face  flushed  and  his  lips  framed  a  hot  an- 
swer; but  he  remembered  that  this  was  Abby's 
father,  and  perhaps  no  offence  was  meant. 

"My  State  has  not  joined  the  Confederacy,"  he 
said.  "My  allegiance  is  to  her.  If  she  goes,  I  will 
go." 

While  he  spoke,  Abby  came  home  again  and  Clay- 
ton withdrew  and  went  over  to  the  parsonage. 
George  declared  that  he  too  must  say  farewell,  and 
Abby,  half  sorry  for  him,  half  ready  still  to  persuade 
him  that  all  the  old  friendliness  remained,  walked 
with  him  to  the  gate.  He  took  her  hand  and  said : 

"Old  friends  are  the  best  friends,  Abby,  aren't 
they?  Life  would  be  dark  to  me  but  for  thy  friend- 
ship." 

Then  she  watched  him  mount  his  horse  and  wave 
his  hand  at  her  and  ride  down  the  street,  and  the 


74  The  Quakeress. 

thought  that  filled  all  her  soul  found  muttered  ex- 
pression as  she  said,  turning  to  go  into  the  house, 
and  carrying  with  her  the  image  of  the  stalwart 
horseman : 

"But  Clayton  is  beautiful!" 


CHAPTER  V. 
By  the  Great  Spring. 

AFTER  supper  Mrs.  Ponder  must  go  to  a  meeting 
of  women  in  the  parish  building  and  Dolly  was  per- 
suaded to  go  with  her.  So  Clayton,  left  alone  upon 
the  porch  with  the  daylight  still  far  from  done,  fell 
to  thinking  of  Abby  and  wondering  if  he  might  ven- 
ture again  that  day  to  visit  the  grey  house.  And 
while  he  considered  he  saw  the  fair  Quakeress  come 
from  the  front  door  upon  her  porch  and  sit  in  a 
chair  and  smooth  out  her  apron  and  begin  gently 
to  rock  to  and  fro.  Father  and  mother  were  within, 
or  they  might  be  absent,  Clayton  thought,  but  in 
either  case  she  was  alone  and  he  was  alone,  and  to 
be  in  her  company  was  the  strongest  desire  in  his 
soul  at  that  moment.  He  had  resolved  to  go  to  her, 
when  she  arose,  and  after  coming  to  the  edge  of  the 
porch  and  looking  at  the  sky,  went  down  the  steps 
and  along  the  gravelled  walk  among  the  flower-beds. 
Clayton  called  to  her.  She  looked  up  and  with  smil- 
ing face  answered  him.  Then  he  asked  if  he  might 
come  to  her,  and  she  said  yes;  so  he  leaped  the  fence 
and  walked  with  her  in  and  out  between  the  beds 
and  the  grass,  and  then  they  came  to  the  rustic 
bench  beneath  the  apple  tree  and  sat  upon  it. 

Over  in  the  west  the  horizon  still  had  flushes  of 
the  glory  of  the  sun  that  had  gone  down,  but  the 
sky  overhead  was  grey  and  cool  and  the  shadows 

(75) 


The  Quakeress. 


were  deepening  in  the  corners  behind  the  house 
where  the  trees  overhung.  The  wood-robin  in  the 
great  cherry  tree  was  singing  his  final  song  before 
he  made  ready  for  sleep,  and  here  and  there  amid 
the  shrubs  and  even  high  among  the  foliage  of  the 
trees  the  faint-flashing  spark  of  the  fire-flies  told  of 
the  coming  of  the  darkness. 

"It  is  the  very  sweetest  time  of  a  summer  day, 
isn't  it?"  said  Abby.  "The  glare  of  the  sun  has 
gone,  and  all  the  tints  are  softened,  and  the  air  is 
cool  and  heavy  with  the  odor  of  the  flowers." 

"Yes,  but  the  freshness  of  morning  is  lovely  and 
the  noon  is  glorious  when  there  is  not  great  heat, 
and  even  the  darkness  has  a  charm  if  we  are  in  the 
mood  to  find  it.  We  are  the  children  of  the  earth 
and  the  sky,  and  it  is  good  to  be  out-of-doors  with 
our  kinsfolk,  the  flowers  and  the  shrubs  and  the 
stars,  and  particularly  good  if  we  have  pleasant  com- 
pany of  our  nearer  human  kin.  One  reason  why 
I  like  my  own  Southland  is  that  life  in  the  open  air 
is  easier  there.  Winter  touches  us  harshly  some- 
times, but  where  I  live  the  yellow  roses  grow  in 
giant  masses  without  fear  of  cold,  and  the  plants 
that  perish  here  thrive  mightily.  You  have  never 
been  in  the  South,  have  you  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Abby. 

"But  you  must  come  and  see  it.  I  will  have  my 
mother  entreat  you  to  come  and  visit  my  sister. 
Our  country  is  strangely  different  from  this.  There 
are  no  hills.  The  land  is  almost  flat,  but  there  are 
rich  fields  and  thick  woods  and  peach  orchards  and, 
better  than  all,  there  are  rivers  and  inlets  tree-bor- 


By  the  Great  Spring.  77 

dered  and  beautiful  to  look  at  and  filled  with  all 
manner  of  life  that  is  good  for  the  hunger  of  man. 
If  you  will  come  to  us  we  will  show  you  all  the  coun- 
try and  the  bays  and  the  streams  and  we  will  have 
you  know  the  people,  the  warmest  hearted,  bravest, 
most  generous,  most  chivalrous  people  in  the  world, 
I  do  believe." 

Abby  laughed  lightly  at  his  enthusiasm  and  an- 
swered : 

"Everybody  says  that  of  the  Southern  people,  and 
I  am  sure  I  should  be  glad  to  know  them." 

"I  don't  mean,"  said  Clayton,  with  a  little  pang 
of  repentance  as  he  remembered  he  was  speaking 
to  a  Northern  girl,  "that  our  people  have  all  the  vir- 
tues. I  cannot  be  blind  to  the  charm  of  many  per- 
sons whom  I  meet  in  the  North,  but  I  do  not  ex- 
aggerate nor  does  my  love  for  my  own  people  mis- 
lead me  when  I  say  that  they  have  a  warmth  of  feel- 
ing that  is  not  commonly  manifested  here,  even 
though  it  may  exist.  And  believe  me  also  that  I  find 
very,  very  much,  in  this  region  at  any  rate,  that 
seems  to  me  singularly  excellent.  You  will  think 
me  really  sincere  when  I  say  that  in  my  view  the 
Friends  in  many  things  come  nearer  to  being  right 
than  any  people  I  know  of." 

"They  are  widely  different  from  those  that  thee 
has  been  used  to,"  said  Abby.  "Some  of  their  ways 
might  repel  thee." 

"I  like  the  plainness  of  their  dress.  How  com- 
pletely unworthy  of  an  intelligent  being  is  the  frip- 
pery of  elaborate  costume!  I  think  their  speech 
with  that  lovely  thee  and  thou  more  than  admirable. 


Tlie  Quakeress. 


Even  their  worship,  which  is  much  too  highly  spir- 
itual for  my  poor  reach,  surely  is  best  if  a  man  can 
attain  to  it.  And  the  preaching  —  !  Did  you  say 
that  Mr.  Fotherly  has  no  forethought  when  he 
preaches?" 

"He  speaks  when  the  inspiration  comes  to  him 
in  the  meeting,  and  if  it  does  not  come  he  remains 
silent." 

"Wonderful!  That  young  man  without  preparation 
or  consideration  and  without  training,  actually 
preaches  far  better  sermons  than  Uncle  Ponder  with 
all  his  learning  and  his  work  with  his  pen.  Poor 
Uncle  Ponder!  I  am  sure  his  people  go  to  sleep. 
Do  Friends  go  to  sleep  in  meeting?" 

"I  really  do  not  know,"  said  Abby,  smiling.  "They 
sit  with  their  eyes  shut  usually,  but  I  think  they 
sleep  very  rarely,  at  any  rate." 

"And  I  like  your  meeting  ever  so  much  better 
than  our  church  at  home.  It  is  a  little  barn  of  a 
building,  as  plain  as  your  meeting-house.  The  peo- 
ple come  to  it  from  all  the  country  round,  and  stand 
about  beneath  the  trees,  talking  politics  and  business 
sometimes  until  the  service  is  half  over.  Then  the 
men  come  trooping  up  the  narrow  aisle,  making  a 
great  clatter,  and  sit  in  the  pews  chewing  tobacco 
and  dozing  while  our  minister  drones  along  over  a 
tiresome  manuscript.  The  one  thing  that  impressed 
me  most  strongly  at  your  meeting  was  the  reverence 
of  the  people.  I  have  not  very  much  of  it  myself, 
but  surely  it  is  a  fitting  thing  for  a  place  where  God 
is  to  be  worshiped.  When  I  go  home  I  intend  to 
read  all  about  George  Fox  and  William  Penn  and 
the  other  great  Quakers." 


By  the  Great  Spring.  79 

While  he  spoke  there  was  a  sound  in  the  street  of 
drum  and  fife  and  presently  passed  by  the  grey  house 
a  company  of  young  men  who  had  been  out  in  the 
cool  of  the  day  drilling.  It  was  a  company  just  now 
recruited  for  service  in  the  Federal  army.  Clayton 
watched  it  with  a  scornful  smile  upon  his  face. 

"George  Fox,"  he  said,  "would  not  have  approved 
of  that,  would  he?" 

"No,"  answered  Abby.  "Friends  are  opposed  to 
strife;  and  oh,  Friend  Harley!  does  it  not  seem  a  terri- 
ble thing  for  men  who  ought  to  love  and  be  kind  to 
one  another  to  be  trying  to  kill  one  another  in- 
stead?" 

"It  is  not  nice,  certainly,"  he  said,  "but  sometimes 
it  appears  to  be  necessary." 

"This  awful  war  has  given  Friends  much  perplex- 
ity. They  cannot  approve  of  fighting,  and  yet  they 
cannot  approve  of  slavery,  (forgive  me,  will  thee,  for 
saying  that?)  and  they  do  not  wish  the  Union  to  be 
broken  in  pieces.  Their  part  must  be  to  pray  for 
peace  and  to  minister  to  the  sufferers  of  both  sides." 

Clayton  was  conscious  that  it  would  be  no  easy 
task  to  commend  himself  to  this  Quaker  girl  while 
standing  fast  for  the  cause  of  the  South,  but  he  said : 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Woolford,  but  you  do  not  have 
the  notion  that  the  South  is  fighting  for  the  preser- 
vation of  slavery,  do  you?" 

"That  is  what  everybody  says:  that  the  Southern 
people  are  afraid  the  negroes  will  be  made  free  and 
that  they  have  taken  up  arms  to  prevent  it." 

"It  is  not  so !"  said  Clayton.  "Will  you  permit  me 
to  put  the  case  fairly  for  you?  The  State  of  Mary- 


8°  The  Quakeress. 

land,  wherein  I  live,  is  a  sovereign  State.  It  is  a 
complete  political  unit,  capable  of  directing  its  own 
affairs,  of  protecting  its  people,  of  conducting  its 
own  business.  When  the  Union  was  formed,  Mary- 
land joined  with  the  other  States  in  arranging  a  cen- 
tral general  government,  and  it  surrendered  to  that 
government,  for  convenience-sake,  a  few  of  its  own 
powers.  Maryland  remained,  just  what  it  was  be- 
fore, a  solid,  immovable  political  unit,  with  sole 
power  to  manage  its  affairs,  with  complete  mastery 
over  its  own  policy,  and  with  positive  right  to  deter- 
mine if  it  would  or  would  not  take  back  the  powers 
it  surrendered,  or  rather  lent,  to  the  central  govern- 
ment. Maryland  never  promised  not  to  demand 
them  again;  she  did  not  consent  to  part  with  them 
irretrievably;  she  still  had  her  sovereignty  and  all 
that  belongs  to  sovereignty.  Now,  if  the  central 
government,  overstepping  the  authority  given  to  it 
by  the  States  that  created  it,  presumes  to  meddle 
with  the  affairs  of  a  sovereign  State  and  to  restrict 
the  action  of  the  State  in  a  manner  to  which  the 
State  never  consented,  then  the  State  has  a  clear 
right  to  repent  of  its  agreement  with  the  central 
government,  to  take  back  what  it  gave,  to  withdraw 
from  the  Union  and  to  resume  its  original  condition 
of  independence.  Maryland  has  not  yet  done  this, 
but  other  Southern  States  have." 

Poor  Abby  was  not  learned  in  these  political  mat- 
ters; she  had  heard  the  Northern  argument  many  a 
time,  but  the  Southern  view  was  new  to  her;  and 
this  advocate  of  the  Southern  cause  was  so  persua- 
sive. 


By  the  Great  Spring.  81 

"But  has  slavery  nothing  to  do  with  the  quarrel?" 
she  asked. 

"This  much  to  do  with  it,"  answered  Clayton.  "If 
I  hold  a  negro  as  my  property  under  the  laws  of  my 
sovereign  State,  I  claim  the  right  to  take  my  prop- 
erty where  I  will  and  I  deny  the  right  of  the  central 
government  or  of  any  other  government  to  set  the 
negro  free,  or  to  forbid  me  to  go  to  this  place  or  that 
with  him,  or  to  permit  any  man  or  body  of  men  to 
harass  me  because  I  have  such  property.  As  for 
slavery  itself,  that  is  quite  another  matter.  I  know 
you  do  not  approve  of  it  and  perhaps  that  you  think 
hardly  of  me  because  I  speak  for  the  cause  of  the 
slave-holders.  I  tell  you  plainly  that  I  do  not  like 
it.  The  South  is  most  unfortunate  in  being  bur- 
dened with  it.  I  know  yff  should  be  far  better  off 
if  the  blacks  were  sent/wck  to  Africa  or  swept  into 

4  I 

the  sea.  But  we  dja  .-jiot  bring  the  blacks  to  our 
country;  we  did  not  gtnslave  them;  we  cannot  return 
them  to  Afjica  0r  i^irust  them  into  the  ocean;  we 
cannot  free  them  without  peril  to  us  and  to  them. 
The  negro  is  h^e;  slavery  is  here;  we  must  accept 
the  fact  as  it  standfT  As  it  does  stand  our  rights  are 
absolutj  a«F  thf^central  government  and  the  free 
States  fiavp  no/more  right  to  meddle  with  it  than 
I  have  to  Interfere  in  your  father's  household.  This 
horrible  war/thus  begun,  is  a  war  of  aggression,  of 
usurpation./  We  will  fi^jit^it  to  the  death.  Your 
people  do  tot  kn<p»$fi\y  pepple.  The  Southerner  is 
a  horseman, "a  man  used  £o  arms  from  his  youth;  a 
man  of  high  courage,  a/dent,  daring,  a  soldier  by 
nature.  Even  if  theiNomih  shall  really  fight,  the  war 


82  Tke  Quakeress. 

will  be  short;  the  South  is  sure  to  win.  Imagine  a 
band  of  Southern  gentlemen  opposed  to  such  a  body 
as  that  which  just  now  went  down  the  street." 
Clayton  laughed  scornfully,  but  plainly  Abby  was 
not  pleased  at  such  comparison,  so  he  said  further: 

"Of  course  what  I  mean  is  that  skill  must  win  the 
victory.  How  can  a  group  of  raw  young  men,  many 
of  whom  never  handled  a  firearm,  stand  before  a 
body  of  highly-trained  soldiers?" 

"Thy  State  has  not  seceded  from  the  Union,"  said 
Abby  with  the  thought  in  her  heart  that  she  should 
be  sorry  to  have  this  man  become  a  soldier. 

"Not  yet,  and  perhaps  force  may  be  used  to  com- 
pel her  to  stay  in  the  Union;  but  they  cannot  prevent 
that  her  sons  should  cast  in  their  lot  with  their  brethren 
of  the  South." 

Abby  remained  silent  for  a  moment  while  the 
question  in  her  heart  trembled  on  her  lips : 

"But  thee  will  not  go,  will  thee?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  always  intended  to  go,"  he  answered, 
"but  now — "  He  hesitated  to  complete  the  sen- 
tence. He  could  not  dare  to  speak  his  mind  upon 
the  subject.  Now  indeed  a  new  person  and  a  new 
thing  had  come  into  his  life,  and  all  his  plans  were 
overturned,  all  his  thoughts  were  changed,  all  his 
purposes  ran  in  a  new  direction.  The  cause  of  the 
South  called  less  clamorously  to  him,  for  the  strong- 
est passion  that  comes  to  the -soul  of  man  called  him 
to  the  North.  So  then,  after  a  moment's  pause  for 
swift  thought,  he  said : 

"But  now  perhaps  I  may  find  that  my  duty  lies 
along  the  ways  of  peace." 


By  the  Great  Spring. 


He  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  saw  in  his  eyes  the  thought  he  could 
not  venture  to  utter,  and  then  his  own  eyes  were 
turned  to  the  ground. 

When  the  darkness  began  to  fall  about  them  and 
the  moment  was  near  when  they  must  go  to  the 
house  where  others  would  be  with  them,  Clayton's 
mind  was  fixed  that  he  would  arrange  to  spend  at 
least  a  portion  of  the  morrow  with  Abby.  His  stay 
in  Connock  would  be  brief,  and  he  felt  that  he  cared 
for  nothing  so  much  as  for  the  companionship  of 
this  Quaker  girl.  He  talked  with  her  therefore  of 
walks  that  might  be  taken,  and  when  Abby  sug- 
gested that  the  North  lane  was  beautiful  and  that 
at  its  end  lay  her  father's  furnace  and  a  lovely  stretch 
of  the  river,  both  worth  seeing,  it  was  agreed  that 
Abby  and  Dolly  and  Clayton  should  go  thither  in 
the  morning. 

"In  the  afternoon,"  Abby  said,  "thy  aunt  has 
asked  me  to  drive  with  thee  and  thy  sister  to 
George's  farm.  She  will  ask  him  to  let  them  have  the 
picnic  for  the  Sunday  School  in  his  woods." 

Thus  when  Clayton  parted  from  Abby  there  was 
for  both  of  them  the  assurance  that  for  still  another 
day  they  were  to  be  together. 

In  the  morning  Dolly  was  half  reluctant  to  go 
down  the  North  lane. 

"Why  didn't  we  send  for  Mr.  Fotherly  to  join  us  ?" 
she  asked,  with  clear  perception  that  Clayton  would 
much  rather  have  Abby  to  himself.  But  George  had 
not  been  asked,  and  Abby  protested  her  unwilling- 
ness to  go  without  Dolly,  and  so  at  last  the  three 
strolled  up  the  main  street  and  then  out  the  turn- 


84  The  Quakeress. 

pike-road  that  began  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  The  sky 
was  overcast,  but  the  air  was  clear  enough  to  permit 
the  eye  to  reach  the  farthest  limit  of  the  landscape. 
Half  a  mile  or  more  from  the  town  the  young  women 
and  their  companion  under  Abby's  guidance  turned 
into  a  hedge-rimmed  lane  with  here  and  there  a  great 
tree  reaching  its  branches  across  the  drive-way. 
The  hedges  were  so  high  and  the  lane  so  crooked 
that  the  pedestrian  could  see  nothing  but  the  foliage 
about  him  and  the  grey  sky  overhead.  But  pres- 
ently the  party  came  to  the  end  of  a  turn  in  the 
road  where  the  descent  towards  the  river  began. 

"Look!"    exclaimed   Abby,    pointing   downward. 

The  lovely  neighborhood  of  Connock  has  no 
scene  finer  than  that  which  lay  below  them.  The 
river,  flowing  for  a  time  upon  a  line  at  right  angles 
with  this  North  lane,  suddenly  turns  at  Spring  Mill, 
and  runs  as  if  it  were  a  direct  continuation  of  the 
lane.  The  hills  on  either  side  have  their  greatest 
height  where  the  turn  is  made  and  looking  far  to 
the  southward  through  the  gap  the  stream  resem- 
bles a  narrow  lake  stretching  away  until  it  loses  it- 
self in  the  misty  distance.  Down  amid  the  gleaming 
of  the  water  a  green  island  lies  low,  covered  with 
trees  and  giving  to  the  view  the  last  touch  that 
brings  it  to  the  level  of  perfect  beauty. 

"Many  a  famous  landscape  in  Europe  is  not  so 
beautiful,"  said  Dolly,  "and  to  think  that  nobody 
ever  heard  of  this  one  before." 

"But  it  is  famous  hereabouts,"  said  Abby,  smiling. 
"We  do  not  let  the  world  hear  us  boast  of  it." 

"I  have  seen  Loch  Katrine,"  said  Clayton,  "and 
it  is  not  more  charming." 


By  the  Great  Spring.  85 

"But  it  has  been  well  advertised,"  added  Dolly. 

"The  Scottish  hills  are  not  wooded,"  continued 
Clayton,  "and  that  makes  them  inferior  to  these  glo- 
rious hills ;  and  the  river,  in  which  the  hills  are  mir- 
rored, is  as  lovely  as  Katrine  ever  was !" 

The  decline  of  the  road  became  more  steep,  as  the 
pedestrians  came  nearer  to  the  river.  But  before 
reaching  the  stream  Abby  turned  to  the  left  and  led 
her  companions  over  a  bridge  that  lay  athwart  a 
swift-running  brook  of  transparent  water.  Then 
their  way  was  across  a  meadow  covered  by  rank 
grass  to  a  grove  whereby  a  great  pool  swelled  be- 
tween its  banks  of  sod,  and  fed  the  rivulet  with  its 
overflow. 

They  came  near  and  looked  into  the  almost  circu- 
lar basin.  The  shadowed  water  had  no  secrets.  The 
sandy  bottom  could  be  seen  plainly,  and  from  it  in 
a  score  of  places  the  water  oozed  and  bubbled  con- 
tinuously. It  is  a  mighty  spring,  fed  from  the  hid- 
den channels  of  the  limestone  hills  all  about  it  and 
gushing  forth  its  waters  in  undiminished  volume 
even  when  drought  lies  long  upon  the  land. 

The  clustering  willow  trees,  the  clear  pool,  the 
grassy  hollows  of  the  grove,  make  it  a  place  of  rest 
and  peace.  Nearby  a  band  of  gypsies  had  come  with 
sure  knowledge  of  the  fitness  of  the  place  for  them, 
and  Dolly  was  filled  with  curiosity  to  see  them. 
Abby  had  timidity,  but  Clayton  was  brave  and  Dolly 
was  positive,  and  so  they  walked  across  the  meadow 
to  the  edge  of  the  camp. 

There  were  queer  wagons  and  many  horses  and 
gaudy  coloring  upon  the  women's  dresses  and  the 


86  The  Quakeress. 

tent  equipage;  and  upon  the  ground  were  cooking 
utensils  and  other  articles  of  convenience. 

"Their  preference,"  said  Clayton,  when  he  had 
looked  at  them  for  a  moment,  "apparently  is  to  be 
near  to  water,  but  not  too  near." 

"Not  caring  for  godliness,"  said  Dolly,  "I  sup- 
pose they  are  careless  also  about  its  next  door  neigh- 
bor." 

"I  am  sorry  for  them  that  they  should  live  so  for- 
lornly," was  the  comment  made  by  Abby. 

The  vagrants  were  not  indifferent  to  the  presence 
of  their  visitors.  The  men  who  lounged  by  the 
fires  looked  sharply  at  the  young  women  and  spoke 
among  themselves  in  low  tones.  Then  an  old  woman 
came  forward  and  greeted  them;  an  offensive  per- 
son in  her  visage,  her  dress  and  her  general  dishev- 
elment. 

Clayton  was  inclined  to  banter  her,  but  she  did 
not  heed  his  words.  Whatever  the  measure  of  her 
degradation  she  could  not  be  made  ridiculous. 

"Let  me  tell  the  fortunes  of  the  ladies  and  the 
gentleman,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,"  whispered  Abby  to  Dolly,  "do  not  have 
her  do  that." 

But  Dolly  would  have  it.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said, 
"let  her  do  it.  It  will  be  good  fun.  Of  course  it  is 
all  nonsense.  Shan't  we  try  it,  Clayt?" 

"If  you  wish.  The  investment  will  be  small,  and 
the  enlargement  of  our  stock  of  information  smaller." 

"I  will  tell  you  truly,"  the  woman  said.  "You  do 
not  guess  my  power." 

"I  do  not  like  such  things,"  said  Abby  softly,  to 


By  the  Great  Spring. 


Dolly.  She  had  a  feeling  of  dread  as  she  looked  at 
the  woman's  hard,  almost  malignant,  face. 

"Pooh,  my  dear!"  responded  Dolly.  "It  is  folly, 
of  course,  but  there  can  be  no  harm.  I  am  greatly 
interested.  She  is  the  first  gypsy  woman  I  have 
seen." 

"I  will  take  the  gentleman  first,"  said  the  woman, 
possibly  with  a  purpose  to  put  the  transaction  upon 
a  perfectly  safe  financial  basis  at  the  beginning.  She 
took  Clayton's  hand  and  looked  at  it.  Then  she 
stooped  and  dipping  some  water  from  the  brook, 
poured  it  into  the  hollow  of  his  palm. 

"Look  there,"  she  said.     "Do  you  see  anything?" 

"Nothing  but  water,"  he  answered,  when  he  had 
glanced  at  it. 

The  woman  looked  again  and  then  moving  so 
that  she  would  stand  between  him  and  his  compan- 
ions, she  whispered  : 

"But  I  see  something.  I  see  you  lying  dead  upon 
the  ground  with  your  face  white  and  a  great  hole 
torn  in  your  breast." 

There  was  that  in  the  woman's  manner  which 
gave  to  Clayton  a  little  shock  of  pain.  He  turned 
his  hand  and  wiped  it  upon  his  handkerchief  and 
laughed  as  if  he  would  appear  indifferent.  He  would 
have  preferred  to  end  the  performance,  but  the 
woman  had  taken  Abby's  hand,  and  Abby  shuddered 
a  little  at  the  touch.  Then  the  sybil  poured  water 
in  the  open  palm  as  she  had  done  with  Clayton,  and 
looked  long. 

"What  do  you  see?"  demanded  Dolly. 

The  woman  did  not  heed  the  question.  Leaning 
over,  she  said,  so  that  Abby  alone  could  hear: 


The  Quakeress. 


"You  will  die,  my  poor  dear,  with  a  broken  heart." 

Abby  was  ashamed  to  care,  but  she  could  hardly 
restrain  her  tears.  She  could  not  believe  that  this 
vagabond  woman  should  know  the  future,  but  some-- 
how the  words  thus  spoken  found  a  strange  re- 
sponse in  her  own  mind. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  said,  turning  away  and  walking 
for  a  pace  or  two. 

"Not  until  I  have  my  turn,"  said  Dolly.  "What 
did  she  say  to  you  two?  I  shall  insist  upon  know- 
ing; and  I  must  know  my  fate  also.  Here,"  she 
said,  holding  her  open  hand  toward  the  woman. 

The  gypsy  gazed  upon  her  palm  and  put  water 
there,  and  looked  long,  and  then  she  went  to  Clay- 
ton and  thrust  at  him  the  money  he  had  given  her. 
He  would  not  take  it. 

"What  is  my  fortune?"  demanded  Dolly. 

The  woman  took  the  silver  coin  and  whirled  it 
into  the  air.  It  fell  into  the  depth  of  the  spring  and 
lay  there  gleaming  white. 

"I  will  not  tell  you!"  she  said  to  Dolly  and  then 
she  strode  away  to  the  camp  and  was  lost  amid  the 
wagons. 

Dolly  was  vexed  and  Clayton  felt  angry  with  him- 
self that  he  should  be  depressed  by  the  woman's 
prophecy,  but  Abby  turned  and  walked  toward  the 
river  as  if  she  wished  to  separate  herself  from  the 
scene. 

"You  will  not  tell  me  what  the  wretched  creature 
said  to  you,  Clayt?"  asked  Dolly. 

"Nothing  but  nonsense,"  he  answered.  "It  is  not 
worth  repeating;  and  Miss  Woolford  has  been  dis- 


By  the  Great  Spring.  89 

pleased  by  it.  I  am  sorry  we  encountered  the  wo- 
man. Let  us  speak  no  more  of  the  matter.  But 
I  will  tell  you  after  a  while  what  she  said  to  me,  that 
is  if  I  can  remember  it." 

While  Clayton  spoke  lightly  of  the  scene  that  had 
passed  and  Dolly  began  some  cheerful  talk,  they 
came  to  the  little  bridge  and  when  they  had  passed 
over  Clayton  with  a  laugh  exclaimed : 

"Now  we  are  safe!  You  know  you  can  always 
break  a  witch's  spell  by  crossing  running  water. 
Good  Quakers  and  good  church  people  ought  to  let 
Satan's  friends  alone.  We  shall  tell  Uncle  Ponder 
ard  he  will  give  us  a  powerful  sermon  with  the 
Witch  of  Endor  for  a  text." 

But  somehow  Abby  could  not  find  herself  in  har- 
mony with  this  jesting  spirit,  and  so  in  silence  she 
led  her  friends  around  and  across  the  mill-race  to 
the  ground,  covered  by  crushed  cinder,  whereon  the 
great  furnace  stood. 

In  the  office  Abby  met  her  father,  busy  with  his 
accounts  and  having  worry  written  upon  his  face. 
He  was  gracious  to  his  visitors,  but  too  much  en- 
gaged to  give  them  attention,  so  he  called  a  work- 
man and  told  him  to  show  them  what  was  worth 
seeing. 

To  Dolly  all  of  it  was  worth  seeing;  the  heaps  of 
ore  and  coal  and  limestone  carried  to  the  top  of  the 
furnace  and  hurled  into  the  flaming  pit  below;  the 
grimy  men  who  toiled  above,  where  the  burning  gas 
jetted  from  the  open  door;  the  soughing  of  the 
blowers  that  with  their  hot  breath  fanned  the  burn- 
ing mass  within  the  stack;  and  then  the  scene  in  the 


The  Quakeress. 


casting  room  where  the  fluid  iron  poured  forth  and 
ran  along  the  channels  to  the  moulds,  filling  the 
chamber  with  furious  heat  and  ill-smelling  vapor. 

The  two  girls  and  Clayton  were  glad  to  come 
again  into  the  open  air  where  they  could  look  up  at 
the  mighty  stack  above  them  and  watch  in  the  low- 
roofed  house  the  swift  movements  of  the  great  en- 
gine. 

"It  sounds  like  the  panting  of  some  colossal 
beast,"  said  Dolly,  as  the  blowers  slowly  forced  the 
air  into  the  stack.  "Sigh  after  sigh,  sigh  after  sigh, 
as  if  the  monster  were  in  dreadful  pain.  I  have 
heard  it  every  night  since  I  came  here  and  knew  not 
what  it  was.  I  should  become  melancholy  if  I  heard 
it  always.  It  makes  me  think  of  hell." 

"Thee  would  become  used  to  it,"  said  Abby.  "I 
never  hear  it  any  more.  And  then,"  she  added, 
lightly,  "I  could  not  think  it  mournful.  It  means 
bread  and  butter  for  us." 

"And  it  means  more  than  that,"  said  Clayton, 
gravely.  "It  means  strength  for  the  North  in  the 
war  that  has  begun.  If  the  South  shall  be  beaten  it 
will  be  by  these  great  industries  that  it  has  neglected 
while  the  North  has  multiplied  them." 

"Our  poor  furnace,"  answered  Abby,  "is  for  peace 
and  blessing.  It  makes  iron  for  useful  industry.  I 
pray  that  none  of  it  may  become  shot  and  shell  to 
slay  our  brethren." 

Then  they  turned  and  walked  homeward,  part  of 
the  way  by  the  brink  of  the  river;  and  while  Clayton 
could  not  help  thinking  of  the  gypsy  woman's  evil 
words  and  of  the  possibility  that  iron  from  that  very 


By  the  Great  Spring.  91 

furnace  might,  strangely,  help  to  the  fulfilment  of 
her  prophecy,  Abby  found  her  mind  lingering  over 
the  words  spoken  to  her. 

When  she  parted  from  her  friends  and  shut  her 
chamber-door  upon  them  and  her  mother,  she  could 
not  be  rid  of  foreboding.  A  week  ago  the  thought 
that  her  heart  would  break  was  far  from  her;  but 
now?  She  remembered  the  sad,  anxious  face  of  her 
father  and  his  business  troubles;  she  considered  the 
terrible  war  that  menaced  her  country;  she  reflected 
that  this  man  who  had  suddenly  transformed  her  life 
might  not  care  for  her;  or  if  he  should  care  for  her, 
tLat  she  could  have  him  for  her  own  only  at  the 
cost  of  separating  herself  from  the  Friends  she  loved 
so  much.  And  George !  If  her  heart  was  to  be  sor- 
row-smitten until  it  should  break,  what  would  be  his 
doom,  the  man  who  had  always  loved  her  and  she 
knew  would  endure  anguish  if  she  were  lost  to  him? 
She  was  filled  with  pain  as  she  thought  of  him;  but 
when  she  looked  deeply  in  her  soul  she  saw  there 
with  perfect  clearness  something  mightier  than  the 
fear  that  enshrouded  her;  and  she  felt  sure  finally 
that  love  was  her  master  and  that  she  should  hold 
fast  to  it  and  be  faithful  to  it  though  all  the  rest  of 
her  life  should  become  hopeless,  black  disaster. 

She  spent  the  afternoon  in  her  room  and  in  help- 
ing her  mother  with  the  house-duties.  After  tea 
Dolly  and  Clayton  came  again  to  propose  a  game  of 
croquet,  and  while  the  young  people  played,  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Ponder  sat  upon  their  porch.  The  doctor 
was  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  to  speak  alone  with 
his  wife. 


'92  The  Quakeress. 

The  land  was  full  of  the  sounds  of  war  and  of  the 
movements  of  armies,  and  Dr.  Ponder  had  had  a 
summons  to  play  a  part  in  the  military  operations. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  as  soon  as  they  were  seated, 
"something  strange  has  happened  to  me.  I  have 
been  offered  the  chaplaincy  of  Colonel  Boulter's 
regiment  which  is  now  organizing  at  Wyncote." 

Mrs.  Ponder  had  a  little  shock  of  surprise  and 
alarm. 

"But  you  haven't  accepted  it?" 

"No;  the  offer  was  made  to  me  only  this  after- 
noon. We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  consider  it, 
The  salary  is  fifteen  hundred  dollars." 

"I  don't  care  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder.  "I 
think  of  the  danger  for  you." 

"Nor  do  I  care  much  for  it,  although  I  do  not 
despise  the  money.  As  for  the  danger,  it  must  be 
hardly  worth  considering.  You  will  believe  me, 
wife,  I  wish  to  be  guided  solely  by  perception  of 
duty.  Can  I  be  of  more  service  to  my  Master  there 
than  here?" 

Believe  you,  birdie !  You  never  think  of  yourself 
at  all.  It  would  be  terrible  for  me  to  let  you  go,  but 
I  am  willing  to  make  the  sacrifice  if  your  country 
needs  you.  Do  chaplains  wear  uniforms?" 

"Yes." 

"You  would  be  beautiful  in  a  uniform.  I  should 
be  proud  to  see  you  in  it.  But  you  are  almost  too 
stout  I  should  think  for  marching." 

"As  a  staff  officer  the  chaplain  I  believe  rides  a 
horse." 

"But  we  have  no  horse." 


By  the  Great  Spring.  93 

Dr.  Ponder  laughed  and  said,  "No  doubt  the  gov- 
ernment or  patriotic  citizens  or  somebody  supplies 
a  good  horse;  but  really,  wife,  I  am  rather  afraid  I 
can't  ride  very  well." 

"I  am  sure  you  can  with  a  little  practice." 

"Are  you  willing  that  I  should  take  the  place?  or 
would  it  be  better,  do  you  think,  for  me  to  not  take 
it?  I  have  no  plans.  I  feel  an  impulse  to  go,  but 
that  may  be  because  of  the  novelty  of  the  experience 
or  because  the  whole  country  is  filled  with  enthu- 
siasm about  the  army.  Let  us  talk  it  over  calmly." 

"You  would  have  no  vestrymen  or  accounting 
wardens  to  bother  with.  That  is  one  good  thing 
about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"I  do  not  care  so  much  for  that.  I  cannot  reason- 
ably complain  very  much  of  my  vestry.  One  of  my 
doubts  is  if  I  can  preach  effectively  to  rough  and 
heedless  soldiers." 

"Nobody  can  do  it  any  better." 

"Do  you  think  they  would  care  very  much  about 
the  Captivity  and  the  Lost  Tribes?" 

"I  should  certainly  think  so.  Soldiers  are  rea- 
sonable beings.  Then  you  can  preach  about  Joshua 
and  David  and  Gideon  and  all  the  other  fighters. 
The  story  of  David  and  Goliath  could  be  made  very 
interesting  and  profitable  to  them,  I  am  sure." 

"Cornelius  the  Centurion  was  a  soldier,  too." 

"Yes,  and  Sennacherib." 

"But  he  was  on  the  wrong  side,  you  remember!" 

"I  know,  but  you  could  use  him  as  a  warning.  He 
is  a  verv  striking  example,  it  seems  to  me." 

"Of  what?" 


94  The  Quakeress. 

"Well,  of  several  things;  just  an  example." 

"I  suppose  I  could  hardly  go  into  Erastianism 
with  the  soldiers." 

"I  don't  see  why  not.  No  doubt  many  of  them 
are  far  from  being  rooted  and  grounded  in  the  truth. 
But,  birdie,  I  think  you  ought  to  have  command 
of  something.  A  rector  and  a  member  of  the  sacred 
ministry  is  entitled  to  exercise  positive  authority. 
Do  chaplains  say  to  this  man  go  and  he  goeth;  and 
to  another  man  do  this  and  he  doeth  it?" 

"They  exercise  only  religious  authority  and  that 
is  enough  for  me  and  for  my  sacred  office." 

"But  I  remember  Muhlenberg  in  the  Revolution, 
how  he  preached  a  patriotic  sermon  and  then  threw 
off  his  gown,  showing  his  uniform  underneath  and 
dashing  from  the  pulpit  led  his  congregation  into 
the  fray." 

"It  was  grand!"  replied  the  doctor,  "but  a  thing 
of  that  kind  is  much  too  dramatic  for  me  and  be- 
sides very  few  in  my  congregation  want  to  enter 
the  service.  In  fact,  my  talents  are  not  military, 
though  I  hope  I  am  a  good  fighter  against  Satan." 

"You  are  one  of  his  most  formidable  opponents. 
Have  you  spoken  to  any  member  of  the  vestry  about 
it?" 

"To  Mr.  Togg  only;  and  he  said  very  emphatically 
'Go !'  But  I  fear  my  dear  he  \yould  not  be  sorry  to 
be  rid  of  me.  He  said  I  would  make  a  splendid  fight- 
ing parson." 

"I  can't  bear  that  man!  Why  doesn't  he  go  him- 
self, if  he  is  so  anxious  to  have  people  go?  If  you 
go  he  will  have  a  younger  man  called  in  your  place 
and  you  will  never  be  received  here  again." 


By  the  Great  Spring.  95 

"That  is  a  point  of  the  first  importance.  If  I  enter 
the  army  I  must  leave  you  alone;  then,  when  the 
war  is  over,  I  may  have  much  trouble  to  get  another 
parish ;  and  besides,  I  am  half  afraid  I  am  too  old  for 
military  service.  Under  the  best  circumstances  it 
must  be  hard.  How  would  it  do  to  compromise  by 
accepting  the  position  of  honorary  chaplain  to  the 
Connock  Home  Guard  that  drills  down  on  the  river- 
meadow  every  night?  I  could  have  experience  in 
that  way,  and  learn  if  the  work  suited  me." 

"But  it  would  be  hardly  worth  while  to  preach  to 
them  about  Gideon  and  Sennacherib.  They  will 
never  be  in  a  battle." 

"Not  unless  the  rebels  invade  Connock.  But  may 
be  if  I  were  chaplain  I  could  get  them  to  come  to 
church  on  Sundays.  Not  one  of  them  comes  now." 

Mrs.  Ponder  could  see  no  objection  to  the  accept- 
ance of  the  chaplaincy  of  the  Home  Guard,  and 
although  the  chaplaincy  in  Col.  Boulter's  regiment 
had  in  it  some  elements  of  attractiveness,  she  con- 
cluded that  she  could  hardly  bear  to  have  the  doctor 
give  up  his  present  charge,  and  move  her  from  her 
home  and  face  the  perils  of  the  field  of  war. 

"Very  well,  then."  said  Dr.  Ponder,  "we  will  put 
the  matter  by,  for  the  present,  at  any  rate.  But, 
wife,  sometimes  I  fear  my  people  here  are  becoming 
tired  of  me.  That  would  be  an  awful  thing,  wouldn't 
it?  I  notice  an  air  of  weariness  occasionally  in  the 
congregation.  Alfred  Togg  yawned  occasionally 
during  the  sermon  last  Sunday,  and  Mr.  Duckett  fre- 
quently sleeps." 

"Little  vessels  are  soon  filled,"  answered  Mrs. 
Ponder. 


96  The  Quakeress. 

The  doctor  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  he  said : 

"What  will  happen  to  us,  wife,  when  I  am  turned 
out  and  left  helpless,  as  numbers  of  my  brethren 
have  been?  I  cannot  dig  and  to  beg  I  am  ashamed. 
Many  of  them  have  children  to  care  for  them,  but 
we—" 

Dr.  Ponder's  voice  quavered  and  broke.  Mrs. 
Ponder  moved  her  chair  over  by  his  side  and  took 
his  hand  in  hers.  She  had  had  her  own  misgivings 
about  the  future,  but  she  said  cheerily: 

"  'I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee.'  That 
is  the  promise,  birdie;  the  promise  to  us,  and  we  have 
no  right  to  fear  as  we  look  to  the  future." 

"And  he  is  faithful  that  promised,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. "He  has  always  blessed  us  and  he  will  bless  us 
still.  Perhaps  he  will  call  me  to  himself  before  I 
shall  be  cast  out  and  then  there  will  be  peace.  If 
you  could  go  with  me  I  should  be  glad  to  have  the 
summons  come." 

Mrs.  Ponder  leaned  over  and  kissed  him. 

"God  will  permit  us  to  go  together,  I  am  sure. 
You  would  not  be  happy  in  Heaven  without  me." 

"No,"  he  said;  "no;  I  cannot  conceive  of  happiness 
even  there  without  you;  and  if  we  cannot  go  to- 
gether, one  of  us  will  wait  for  the  other.  Do  you 
think  there  will  be  any  tears  there,  dearest?" 

"The  Bible  says  there  will  be  none." 

"It  says  that  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  and  so 
there  must  be  some  at  the  beginning.  If  you  were 
there  and  I  had  waited  long  to  join  you,  I  should 
have  to  cry  a  little  just  for  joy  when  I  first  met  you 
again.  Then  there  would  be  no  more." 


By  the  Great  Spring.  97 

When  love  is  the  theme,  young  lovers  are  the 
favorites  for  its  embodiment  and  illustration;  but  the 
lovers  long  married  and  not  far  from  translation  to 
that  place  where  everything  is  love  are  not  unworthy 
of  a  share  of  sympathy. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Feast  of  Tabernacles. 

DR.  PONDER'S  custom  had  been  to  take  his  Sunday 
School  upon  a  picnic  on  every  Fourth  of  July,  and 
when  in  1861  the  first  of  the  four  dreadful  battle- 
summers  of  the  civil  war  began,  the  doctor  was  more 
resolute  than  ever  that  the  little  lambs  of  his  fold 
should  celebrate  with  joyousness  and  patriotic  fer- 
vor the  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  American  lib- 
erty. Upon  Mrs.  Ponder  devolved  the  duty  of  mak- 
ing preparations  for  the  festivity,  and  when  she  had 
considered  where  a  fitting  place  for  it  might  be 
found,  she  resolved  to  ask  the  Quaker,  George  Foth- 
erly,  if  his  woods  might  not  be  used  to  give  pleasure 
to  the  children  of  the  Church. 

"I  want  you  and  Abby  and  Clayton  to  drive  over 
there  with  me,  Dolly  dear,"  she  said  to  her  niece. 
"It  is  a  delightful  drive,  and  George's  place  is  charm- 
ing." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  go,"  said  Dolly. 

"But  first,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder,  "I  must  ask  Mrs. 
Woolford  to  let  me  have  their  horses  and  two- 
seated  carriage,  and  Clayton  can  drive.  It  is  really 
too  bad,  my  dear,  isn't  it,  that  we  have  to  depend 
upon  the  kindness  of  our  neighbors  for  a  convey- 
ance? In  uncle's  first  parish  the  vestry  supplied  him 
with  a  horse  and  carriage  so  that  he  could  visit  his 
flock  in  the  outlying  districts.  To  be  sure,  the  horse 

(98) 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


99 


was  not  showy.  In  fact  he  was  in  a  degree  decrepid, 
and  Senator  Wigger  vulgarly  alluded  to  him  in  un- 
cle's presence  as  a  'glandered  ruin;'  but  the  horse 
did  move,  if  with  difficulty,  and  the  carriage,  though 
forlorn,  had  wheels  that  would  actually  go  around; 
but  in  uncle's  present  parish  he  must  walk,  or  hire 
or  borrow  from  his  friends." 

"Clayton  will  hire  a  horse  and  carriage,  auntie, 
I  am  sure,"  said  Dolly,  "rather  than  have  you  feel 
badly  about  borrowing.  In  fact,  I  should  much 
rather  have  him  do  so." 

"No,  my  love,"  answered  Mrs.  Ponder,  "we  will 
borrow  so  as  to  make  a  kind  of  protest  against  the 
theory  of  the  Quakers  that  we  have  'a  hireling  min- 
istry,' who  enrich  themselves  at  the  expense  of  their 
flocks.  Your  uncle,  with  his  fine  powers,  would 
have  been  a  millionaire,  I  am  sure,  if  he  had  taken 
up  the  law  or  almost  any  other  secular  employment. 
His  life  is  a  perpetual  sacrifice.  The  laborer  is  indeed 
worthy  of  his  hire,  and  this  particular  kind  of  laborer 
is  worthy  of  much  more  hire  than  he  gets.  We  em- 
phasize this  fact  to  the  Quakers  every  time  we  bor- 
row their  horses." 

Mrs.  Woolford  was  willing  to  lend  her  carriage, 
and  so,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Clayton 
with  Mrs.  Ponder  and  the  two  girls  drove  across  the 
river  bridge  and  then,  turning  to  the  left,  entered 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  Aramink  gorge  that  winds 
in  and  out  among  the  hills  until  it  ends  upon  the 
high  plateau  of  the  summit. 

Mrs.  Ponder's  mind  as  she  rode  along  was  upon 
the  coming  picnic. 


The  Quakeress. 


"I  am  almost  sure  Mr.  Fotherly  will  let  us  use  his 
woods,"  she  said.  "He  is  a  kind  man  and  should  be 
glad  to  give  happiness  to  little  children.  It  is  hap- 
piness. I  suppose,  but  sometimes  I  am  not  perfectly 
satisfied  about  Sunday  School  picnics.  The  early 
church  never  had  any,  and  the  Fourth  of  July  is  not 
in  the  Church  calendar;  and,  at  any  rate,  it  seems 
really  queer  to  mix  up  religion  and  patriotism  and 
lemonade  and  sandwiches  in  the  children's  minds 
and  stomachs.  Is  it  any  wonder  some  of  them 
do  not  have  clear  views  when  they  grow  up?" 

"There  is  George  now!"  exclaimed  Abby  when 
the  carriage  came  to  a  turn  in  the  road  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  gorge. 

In  a  field  above  the  level  of  the  road  George 
Fotherly  was  at  work  with  a  dozen  laborers.  He 
wore  just  shirt  and  trousers  and  a  broad  straw  hat, 
and  his  sleeves  were  rolled  almost  to  his  elbows.  In 
his  hand  was  a  rake.  The  master  and  the  men  toiled 
together. 

When  Mrs.  Ponder  called  him  he  came  forward 
with  a  smile  upon  his  face  and,  without  lifting  his 
hat,  greeted  the  people  in  the  carriage.  He  asked 
them  to  alight,  and  when  they  would  not,  he  leaned 
his  arms  upon  the  fence-top  in  the  shade  of  a  great 
chestnut  tree  while  he  talked  to  them. 

His  figure  was  in  clear  relief  against  the  sky,  as 
he  stood  above  them,  and  Dolly  was  not  indifferent 
to  the  charm  of  the  strong,  erect,  manly  form,  with 
the  broad  arms,  the  bare  throat  visible  to  his  chest 
and  the  handsome  sun-burned  face  with  the  deep 
brown  eyes.  She  did  not  cease  to  look  closely  at 
him  while  he  stayed  there. 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


101 


George  needed  no  urging  to  grant  Mrs.  Ponders 
request.  He  said  he  should  be  glad  to  have  the  chil- 
dren come  to  the  woods  and  he  should  be  glad  to  be 
there  with  them  if  he  might.  Mrs.  Ponder  asked 
him  to  come,  and  Dolly  thought  within  herself  that 
this  Sunday  School  picnic  really  might  not  be  so 
stupid  after  all. 

Then  George  asked  Mrs.  Ponder  if  she  would  like 
to  visit  the  woods,  and  when  she  said  she  would,  he 
lay  down  his  rake  and  leaped  the  fence  and  coming 
into  the  road  walked  by  the  side  of  the  carriage 
close  to  Dolly.  She  chatted  gaily  with  him,  and 
when  the  bars  were  down  and  the  woods  were 
reached  he  lifted  her  out  and  helped  Mrs.  Ponder 
and  Abby  to  descend,  and  they  moved  among  the 
trees  to  choose  the  place  where  the  tables  should  be 
fixed. 

George  led  them  to  the  side  of  a  swift  little  brook 
that  bubbled  from  the  earth  in  a  hollow  and  then 
went  dancing  down  the  hillside.  Mrs.  Ponder  said 
the  place  was  a  delightful  one  for  a  picnic,  and  when 
George  had  promised  to  provide  the  tables  and 
some  chairs  and  to  bring  his  men  to  help,  he  put 
Mrs.  Ponder  and  the  girls  into  the  carriage,  and  as 
they  drove  off  up  the  road  to  return  home  by  the 
Gulf  Gap,  he  went  back  to  work  again. 

"It  seems  so  odd,"  said  Dolly,  when  George  had 
been  left  behind,  "to  see  Mr.  Fotherly  actually  work- 
ing with  his  own  hands  in  the  fields." 

"Odd,  my  dear!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"I  think  it  is  all  right,  auntie,"  said  Dolly  quickly, 
remembering  Abby's  presence,  "but  you  know  with 


102  The  Quakeress. 

us  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Fotherly  never  would  do  n 
stroke  of  work  in  the  field.  Only  the  servants  do 
that.  And  then  it  is  so  queer,  too,  isn't  it,  Clayton, 
to  see  no  black  people  harvesting?  In  our  country 
the  fields  would  swarm  with  blacks  and  the  overseer 
would  be  sitting  upon  his  horse  watching  them  and 
cracking  his  whip  at  them." 

"Does  thee  not  like  our  way  better?"  asked  Abby. 

Dolly  laughed  and  took  Abby's  hand  in  hers. 

"All  of  us  like  our  own  ways  better,  dear,  but  Mr. 
Fotherly  is  a  fine  gentleman  no  matter  where  he  is 
or  what  he  does." 

On  the  morning  of  the  picnic  Mrs.  Ponder,  with 
a  palm-leaf  fan  in  her  hand,  for  the  air  was  very 
warm,  stood  by  the  porch-railing  at  the  front  of  the 
parsonage  watching  the  teachers  and  the  children 
gather  upon  the  church  pavement  beneath  the  trees. 
Dr.  Ponder,  Clayton,  Dolly  and  Abby  sat  upon  the 
far  side  of  the  porch  waiting  for  the  Sunday  School 
folks  to  start.  Mrs.  Ponder  was  the  commander  of 
the  expedition.  With  her  fan  in  rapid  motion  she 
noted  the  new  arrivals,  she  instructed  the  sexton 
about  the  collection  of  the  baskets  of  provisions  so 
that  they  might  readily  be  put  upon  the  wagon;  she 
congratulated  the  teachers  upon  the  fairness  of  the 
day;  she  commended  the  good  little  girls,  and  she 
reproved  the  unruly  little  boys. 

The  boys  were  disposed  to  be  restless,  noisy  and 
quarrelsome  until  the  wagon  came  to  take  the  bas- 
kets, and  then  Mrs.  Ponder  summoned  them  to  help 
the  sexton  load  the  wagon.  This  was  done  by  the 
time  the  other  wagons  came,  and  then  Mrs.  Ponder 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          103 

had  to  employ  her  severest  manner  and  the  greatest 
activity  to  restrain  the  boys  from  climbing  in  before 
the  girls  were  seated.  Clayton  came  to  help  her, 
and  soon  nearly  all  the  scholars  and  all  the  teachers 
had  found  places.  Mrs.  Ponder,  putting  her  fan 
under  her  elbow  and  wiping  her  face,  which  had 
growrn  very  red,  said  to  the  Sunday  School  before 
the  start  was  made: 

"Now,  children,  there  are  to  be  no  firecrackers. 
We  are  told  to  'make  a  joyful  noise,'  but  the  noise 
of  firecrackers  is  not  a  bit  joyful;  it  always  makes  me 
jump;  and  then  they  are  very,  very  dangerous  and 
smell  dreadfully." 

Mrs.  Ponder  had  hardly  ceased  speaking  and  was 
just  turning  to  say  good-bye  to  her  husband  and 
friends  on  the  porch,  when  Randy  Jones,  of  the  Wil- 
ling Helpers,  exploded  half  a  pack  of  firecrackers 
on  the  other  side  of  the  basket-wagon,  causing  the 
horse  to  plunge  in  a  threatening  manner.  Mrs. 
Ponder  was  very  angry.  She  turned  again  and  tried 
vainly  to  catch  Randy,  and  she  declared  he  should 
stay  at  home;  but  he  insisted  that  the  crackers  had 
gone  off  by  accident,  and  then  he  climbed  up  to  ride 
with  the  driver  of  the  wagon.  He  seemed  so  firmly 
established  there,  and  he  was  so  high,  and  Mrs. 
Ponder  was  so  warm,  and  so  tender-hearted  at  that 
moment,  that  she  concluded  to  overlook  the  inci- 
dent. 

The  wagons  were  crowded  although  an  extra 
wagon  had  been  ordered  for  fear  there  should  not 
be  room  enough. 

"It  is  really  wonderful,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder  to  the 


104  The  Quakeress. 

teacher  of  the  Busy  Workers  who  was  to  ride  with 
her  upon  the  hind  seat  of  the  last  wagon,  "how  the 
number  of  scholars  in  our  school  always  swells  just 
before  the  Fourth  of  July  picnic  and  the  Christmas 
festival." 

While  the  wagons  rolled  down  the  main  street 
of  Connock  the  girls  sang  patriotic  songs  and  the 
boys  dropped  lighted  firecrackers.  In  half  an  hour 
the  woods  were  reached.  George  was  there  to  greet 
his  visitors  and  to  learn  from  Mrs.  Ponder  that  the 
doctor  would  drive  over  with  Abby  and  Dolly  and 
Clayton. 

George  and  his  men  had  four  great  tables  ready 
and  there  were  swings  upon  some  of  the  tall  trees 
and  chairs  for  the  older  folks  to  rest  comfortably 
upon. 

The  children  at  once  spread  through  the  woods 
and  began  to  play  in  the  shallow  brook  until  the 
great  bowl  was  rilled  with  lemonade  and  put  upon 
the  end  of  the  longest  table;  then  the  young  people 
swarmed  about  it  and  refreshed  themselves  with  the 
iced  drink.  Mrs.  Ponder  feared  for  Randy  Jones 
when  she  saw  him  take  his  fourth  glassful  and  she 
drove  him  away,  but  Randy's  own  conviction  was 
that  his  capacity  was  heartlessly  underestimated. 

The  teachers  unpacked  the  baskets  and  arranged 
the  provender  upon  the  tables  as  the  children  had 
more  and  more  fun.  Dr.  Ponder  arrived  with  his 
young  friends;  and  George,  helping  the  ladies  to 
alight,  sent  the  horse  away  to  his  stable.  The  doctor 
thanked  George  heartily  for  giving  his  woods  for 
the  picnic,  and  after  pointing  out  to  him  that  it  was 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          *°s 

really  a  modern  form  of  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles, 
asked  him  to  partake  of  the  repast. 

While  the  doctor  talked  with  George,  Bud  Ma- 
guire,  of  the  Cheerful  Givers,  and  Tommy  Fowler, 
of  the  Band  of  Love,  became  involved  in  combat 
over  a  question  of  swinging  one  of  the  little  girls, 
and  for  a  few  moments  behaved  in  a  disgraceful  man- 
ner. When  George  and  Clayton  with  difficulty  had 
torn  them  asunder  and  brought  them  battered  and 
disheveled  to  Dr.  Ponder,  the  doctor  spoke  to  them 
in  his  severest  manner,  reminding  them  of  Cain  and 
Abel,  and  turned  them  over  to  the  sexton  with  strict 
orders  to  confine  the  Cheerful  Giver  in  one  wagon 
and  the  member  of  the  Band  of  Love  in  another,  de- 
priving both  of  food  and  drink. 

But,  when  the  dinner  was  spread  and  the  diners 
were  summoned,  and  Dr.  Ponder  began  to  say  the 
grace  in  which  he  breathed  new  aspirations  for  the 
children  of  Israel,  both  the  combatants  were  beside 
their  teachers,  and  both  were  peaceable,  hungry  and 
hopeful. 

There  was  more  than  enough  food  and  the  boys 
seemed  to  feel  a  solemn  obligation  to  reduce  the  di- 
mensions of  the  surplus.  Mrs.  Ponder,  having  had 
her  attention  called  early  in  the  day  to  the  thirst  of 
Randy  Jones,  could  not  help  singling  him  out  from 
the  other  children  and  noting  that,  apart  from  sand- 
wiches and  other  solid  provender,  this  sturdy  mem- 
ber of  the  Willing  Helpers  had  had  two  large  slices 
of  watermelon  and  had  been  helped  four  times  to 
ice  cream.  Then  after  making  himself  fairly  bulge 
with  cake,  he  moved  toward  the  lemonade-bowl  and 


106  The  Quakeress. 

would  have  done  fresh  duty  there  had  not  Mrs.  Pon- 
der dexterously  and  firmly  headed  him  off. 

"I  cannot  understand  it,"  she  said  to  the  teacher 
of  the  Busy  Workers.  "He  still  seems  perfectly  well 
and  he  is  such  a  very  small  boy,  too.  His  appetite  is 
really  supernatural." 

When  the  children  had  eaten  and  were  full — much 
too  full,  Mrs.  Ponder  thought  of  some  of  them — 
Dr.  Ponder  rapped  upon  the  table  and  asked  that 
there  should  be  silence.  Some  of  the  older  boys, 
with  experience  in  Dr.  Ponder's  Sunday  School  and 
at  his  picnics,  slipped  beneath  the  table  and  crept 
away. 

The  doctor  was  not  the  man  to  slight  so  good 
an  opportunity  as  this  to  edify  and  enlighten.  He 
spoke  about  the  day — the  anniversary  so  glorious 
for  Americans,  and  of  how  it  reminded  him  of  the 
wonderful  night  when  the  Chosen  People  had  been 
brought  forth  to  liberty  and  to  blessing.  He  ex- 
plained how  it  was  that  the  Ten  Tribes  happened, 
long  subsequently,  to  be  lost;  and  then  he  told  what 
had  become  of  them  and  how  we  had  found  them 
and  how  some  of  the  Chosen  People  at  that  very 
moment,  once  lost,  now  found,  were  sitting  around 
the  festal  board  in  the  Fotherly  woods  replete  with 
nourishment. 

Then  the  doctor  turned  a\vay  back  into  history 
and  by  some  means  wandered  to  Cush  and  expended 
no  little  energy  for  a  few  moments  in  explaining  why 
he  believed  there  had  been  a  primeval  Cush  as  well 
as  a  post-diluvian  Cush,  and  how  the  fact  of  two 
Cushes  having  lived,  complicated  by  the  fact  that 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          107 

there  was  a  country  named  Cush,  (which  Dr.  Ponder 
said  he  was  sure  he  knew,  and  would  at  some  time 
prove  conclusively,  was  Abyssinia)  had  confused  the 
minds  of  the  unlearned. 

"And  no  wonder!"  said  Clayton  to  Abby. 

After  a  while  the  doctor  worked  his  way  down 
again  through  the  generations  and  at  last  got  to 
Erastianism,  which  he  spoke  of  with  indignant  fer- 
vor, showing  to  the  Busy  Workers  and  Cheerful 
Givers  and  Willing  Helpers  who  sat  before  him 
charged  with  sandwiches  and  cake  and  watermelon, 
that  one  of  the  certain  tests  of  true  Americanism  is 
bitter  hostility  to  Erastianism  in  all  its  forms,  and 
calling  upon  the  young  folks  as  loyal  children  of  the 
Church,  not  less  than  as  heirs  to  the  glories  of  the 
Republic,  to  put  their  little  feet  firmly  down  now 
and  lift  up  their  hands  and  pledge  themselves  to  re- 
sist Erastianism  to  the  death. 

The  intermittent  explosion  of  firecrackers  over  by 
the  brook  by  the  boys  who  fled  when  they  found  the 
sermon  coming,  irritated  the  doctor  to  some  extent, 
but  did  not  stem  the  torrent  of  his  talk. 

And  when  he  had  firmly  clenched  in  the  young 
minds  hatred  of  Erastianism,  the  doctor  really  could 
not  help  expressing  to  the  scholars,  sleepy  as  some 
of  them  looked,  his  deep  and  permanent  regret  that 
some  of  our  worthy  neighbors,  people  that  we  love 
and  honor,  and  who  are  willing  to  make  us  their 
guests  and  to  help  us  to  have  innocent  pleasure,  per- 
sist in  closing  their  eyes  to  the  Truth  and  in  remain- 
ing outside  the  Church. 

Poor  little  Sunday  School  children !     They  have 


Quaker 


ess. 


to  endure  so  much  and  they  are  so  patient  and"  long- 
suffering.  They  look  sometimes  as  if  they  wondered 
at  the  folks  who  talk  and  talk  to  them  about  things 
not  to  be  understood,  but  they  never  bear  malice  for 
it.  They  seem  to  accept  the  speakers  as  part  of  the 
mysterious  dismalness  which  comes  into  life  now  and 
then,  like  hand  lessons  and  earache.  They  know  the 
talk  will  stop  sometime  or  other,  and  so  they  bear  it 
and  try  to  seem  cheerful  and  never  have  a  thought 
of  hating  the  big  people  who  make  them  suffer. 
Does  it  not  really  seem  a  matter  of  mere  justice 
that  more  than  half  the  people  in  Heaven  are  chil- 
dren? 

Mrs.  Ponder  did  not  find  the  doctor's  address  tire- 
some or  inappropriate;  but  she  did  say  to  the  teacher 
of  the  Men's  Bible  Class  : 

"We  have  too  many  sermons  for  the  young.  I  do 
wish  the  doctor  would  preach  more  sermons,  for  the 
old.  They  are  much  more  wicked  and  in  need  of 
reproof." 

Randy  Jones,  excluded  from  access  to  the  lemon- 
ade bowl,  turned  to  firecrackers.  In  a  moment  of 
absentmindedness,  caused  probably  by  his  gorged 
physical  condition,  he  put  a  piece  of  lighted  punk 
into  his  pocket  and  set  his  clothes  afire.  Clayton. 
who  was  nearest  to  him,  seized  him  promptly  and 
plunged  him  into  the  creek,  whence  he  was  with- 
drawn extinguished  and  dripping,  but  looking  fairly 
happy  and  ready  for  either  fireworks  or  food. 

When  the  after-dinner  games  began,  Dolly  asked 
George  to  show  her  his  farm  buildings,  whose  praise 
she  had  heard  from  her  aunt  and  uncle,  and  while 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


Abby  strolled  away  with  Clayton  around  the  hillside 
and  down  the  path  that  led  to  the  thicker  forest 
overhanging  the  river,  Dolly  and  George  faced  the 
other  way  toward  the  hill-top.  There  was  a  wind- 
ing road  that  rose  by  easy  gradients  toward  the  farm 
buildings,  but  there  was  a  shorter  way  through  the 
dead  leaves  that  lay  upon  the  steep  bank  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  picnic  ground,  and  Dolly  said  she 
would  go  there  if  George  were  willing.  And  so  he 
must  step  upward  first  and  holding  her  hand  lift 
her  bravely  from  one  level  to  another  until  the  bor- 
der of  the  wood  was  reached.  Then  there  was  but 
a  short  walk  across  a  mown  field  amid  the  stubble, 
to  the  farm  yard  gate. 

The  girl  was  joyful  to  be  with  this  man,  and  she 
talked  to  him  lightly  and  with  bright  humor;  but  in 
her  heart  she  was  half  afraid  of  him.  He  was  not 
just  like  any  other  man  she  had  ever  met.  His  man- 
ners were  perfect,  he  talked  well  and  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  a  bit  of  fun;  but  she  was  conscious  that  he  was 
above  her  in  every  way;  and  that  the  giant  body  was 
the  true  symbol  of  the  spirit  that  lay  hidden  within. 

There  is  a  masterful  man  who  dominates  fate  and 
circumstance,  and  George  was  such  a  man.  His  will 
is  stronger  than  the  force  that  retards  and  makes  for 
failure.  Resolute,  open-eyed,  sure,  he  controls  his 
business  and  his  destiny.  When  he  takes  up  com- 
merce he  becomes  rich.  When  he  deals  with  reli- 
gion he  proceeds  almost  without  wavering  towards 
holiness. 

And  there  is  a  man,  like  Isaac  Woolford,  for  whom 
fate  and  circumstance  are  too  strong1;  who  drifts 


The  Quakeress. 


here  and  drifts  there,  clutching  at  this  chance  and  at 
that,  barely  able  to  keep  afloat  and  likely  at  any  mo- 
ment to  be  overwhelmed  and  submerged  and  lost. 

A  few  men  are  born  masters.  The  multitude  of 
necessity  are  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water, 
or  else  victims  of  the  mischance  that  awaits  the  over- 
confidence  of  the  feeble. 

Dolly  Harley's  interest  in  the  appurtenances  of 
agriculture  was  at  no  time  large,  and  at  this  moment 
it  was  almost  wholly  engaged  with  the  charm  of  her 
companion,  but  she  could  not  fail  to  contrast  the 
cleanliness  and  order  of  this  centre  of  the  great  farm 
with  the  slovenliness  and  disorder  that  were  usual 
in  the  plantation  buildings  of  her  own  country.  The 
floor  of  the  stable-yard  was  made  of  cement,  and  it 
had  not  upon  it  a  wisp  of  straw  or  a  particle  of  litter 
of  any  kind.  The  barn,  the  stables,  the  implement 
sheds,  the  carriage  and  wagon  houses,  were  fresh  and 
bright  and  clean  with  paint  and  within  they  were 
as  cleanly  as  they  were  without.  The  coats  of  the 
horses  shone  and  the  vehicles,  even  the  farm  wagons, 
looked  almost  as  if  they  had  never  been  used.  The 
cows  in  the  enclosure  beyond  the  barn  were  all  of 
the  best  breeds,  and  every  cow  among  them  seemed 
to  have  been  brushed  and  groomed  for  exhibition. 

"It  is  really  surprising,"  exclaimed  Dolly,  as  she 
and  George  turned  back  into  the  stable  yard.  "I 
never  imagined  that  such  places  could  be  made  to 
look  so  well  or  that  they  could  be  managed  at  all 
without  dozens  of  servants.  On  father's  plantation 
we  have  twenty  blacks  around  the  stables  and  barns 
and  yet  our  buildings  are  really  shameful  when  com- 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


pared  with  yours.  Your  cows  are  lovely,  but  I  am 
sure  you  cannot  have  better  horses  than  we  have." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  George.  "Our  horses  are 
not  in  any  way  remarkable,  but  they  are  all  fairly 
good.  I  have  but  three  or  four  for  riding  and  driv- 
ing. Thee  knows  we  Northern  folk  do  not  ride  so 
much  as  the  Southern  people.  I  do  not  know  pre- 
cisely why." 

"I  love  to  ride,"  exclaimed  Dolly.  "Show  me  one 
of  your  riding  horses." 

George  summoned  a  stableman. 

"Bring  out  Major,  if  thee  pleases,  John,"  he  said. 

A  few  moments  later  the  man  led  a  very  handsome 
young  bay  horse  from  the  stable. 

"It  is  a  beauty!"  exclaimed  Dolly,  who  had  no 
small  acquaintance  with  horse  qualities.  "I  wish  I 
might  ride  him." 

"Thee  shall,"  said  George,  "but  thee  must  be  care- 
ful. Thee  is  a  good  rider?"  he  asked.  "However, 
I  know  that  all  the  women  of  the  South  ride  well. 
John,"  he  said  to  the  man,  "put  the  side  saddle  on 
Major." 

"You  have  a  side  saddle,  then  ?"  asked  Dolly,  smil- 
ing. "I  thought  this  was  wholly  a  bachelor  estab- 
lishment." 

"It  belonged  to  my  mother,"  answered  George. 
"It  is  very  old,  but  in  good  order,  and  I  am  sure  thee 
will  find  it  both  comfortable  and  safe.  How  far  will 
thee  ride?  Thee  must  not  go  very  far  for  we  shall 
have  to  return  soon  to  the  picnic  and  thy  uncle  and 
aunt." 

"Only  down  the  road  to  the  gate  yonder  and  back 


112 


TKe  Quakeress. 


again,"  said  Dolly.  "But  I  do  wish  I  could  have  a 
good  long  ride  some  day  through  this  lovely  coun- 
try." 

"Thee  shall,"  said  George,  ''if  I  can  arrange  it." 

"Does  Abby  ride?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him 
closely. 

"No!"  answered  George,  without  seeming  to  no- 
tice her  look.  "She  has  never  learned  and  her 
mother  is  timid  about  it  at  any  rate.  But  thee  can 
go  with  me,  perhaps,  if  I  can  find  opportunity." 

"It  will  be  delightful." 

When  Major  was  led  out,  Dolly  said  to  George: 
"Give  me  your  hand  for  a  help  in  mounting,  won't 
you?"  and  George,  extending  his  broad  hand,  she 
placed  her  dainty  foot  upon  his  palm  and  with  a 
bound  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle.  The  horse  was 
spirited  and  at  once  he  galloped  down  the  road, 
Dolly  keeping  her  seat  firmly  and  waving  her  hand 
at  George. 

George  dismissed  his  man;  then  he  looked  after 
the  graceful  figure  of  the  woman  with  her  skirts  fly- 
ing in  the  wind,  as  she  bent  to  the  movements  of  the 
horse  of  which  she  was  perfectly  the  mistress.  "It 
is  a  perilous  business,"  he  whispered  to  himself  in 
answer  to  the  thought  that  ran  through  his  mind, 
"but  I  did  not  seek  it,  I  am  not  responsible  for  it 
and  I  will  not  be  dismayed." 

The  girl  reached  the  great  gate  that  opened  out 
upon  the  highway;  she  wheeled  the  horse  at  a  gal- 
lop, turned  him  upon  the  sod  of  the  wide  lawn  that 
dipped  downward  from  the  place  where  George 
stood;  then  came  at  full  speed  back  again  to  the  met- 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          "3 

ailed  road,  dashed  directly  up  to  George,  and  stop- 
ped so  suddenly  that  the  panting  horse  was  almost 
upon  him.  It  was  dexterous  horsemanship  and 
George  admired  it.  The  girl  had  spirit  and  courage. 
The  Quaker  would  have  been  less  than  half  a  man 
not  to  find  these  qualities  attractive  in  a  beautiful 
woman. 

"Now  you  must  lift  me  down,"  said  Dolly,  toss- 
ing to  him  the  reins  that  he  put  over  his  arm. 

George  came  near  to  her.  She  leaned  over  and 
put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  Then  she  leaped 
and  he  caught  her  full  in  his  arms  while  her  hands 
for  an  instant  held  him  fast.  He  felt  her  warm 
breath  upon  his  face.  He  was  angry  with  himself 
that  he  was  not  more  displeased.  She  seemed  not 
to  notice  that  he  turned  his  head  away  when  she 
reached  the  ground.  His  brown  face  was  reddened, 
while  he  pretended  to  fix  the  bridle.  Then  while  he 
led  the  horse  to  the  stable-yard  gate,  she  walked 
beside  him  praising  the  horse  and  speaking  with  de- 
light of  her  short  ride. 

"No  woman  in  this  county  rides  so  well  as  thee," 
said  George. 

"You  will  trust  me  again  with  your  horse  some 
day,  then,  will  you  not,  when  you  ride  with  me?" 
she  said. 

When  the  man  had  taken  the  horse  George  said 
to  her: 

"Shall  we  return  to  the  picnic,  or  will  thee  look 
further  at  my  place?  Thee  is  my  guest  and  I  must 
do  thy  pleasure.  My  house — " 

"O,  I  should  dearly  love  to  see  your  house,"  said 


H4  The  Quakeress. 

Dolly  eagerly.  "May  I?  Are  you  sure  you  would 
like  it?" 

"If  thee  wishes  to  look  at  it  thee  is  very  welcome," 
said  George,  striding  off  toward  the  house  half  glad 
and  yet  half  sorry  that  the  visit  was  to  be  prolonged. 

They  entered  the  door  at  the  back  of  the  great 
double  stone  house,  and  as  they  strolled  through  the 
wide  hall  George  opened  the  doors  that  his  compan- 
ion might  peep  into  the  rooms.  Upon  the  wall  by 
the  staircase  and  close  by  the  tall  clock  hung  an 
engraving  of  George  Fox,  with  that  spiritual  face 
cf  his  and  the  eyes  with  the  strange  look  in  which 
some  think  they  find  fanaticism,  while  others  are 
sure  they  perceive  a  vision  of  celestial  things.  Op- 
posite, upon  the  wall,  was  a  picture  of  William  Penn, 
not  in  armor,  but  with  the  dress  of  an  English  gen- 
tleman of  his  time  and  the  rounded  smiling  face  that 
told  of  serenity  and  bland  self-contentment. 

George  did  not  urge  Dolly  to  enter  the  rooms. 
For  her  a  glance  was  enough.  She  saw  that  they 
were  plainly  furnished,  but  that  the  tokens  of  wealth 
and  refined  taste  and  comfort  were  there.  It  seemed 
a  large  house  for  one  man  to  live  in,  and  Dolly's 
thought  went  out  to  the  Quaker  girl  across  the  river 
who  might  come  here  some  day  to  be  the  mistress 
of  a  lovely  home. 

The  air  within  the  house  was  cooler  than  that  upon 
the  outside,  but  when  George  swung  open  the  front 
door,  the  porch  seemed  to  Dolly  more  tempting. 
For  from  the  wide  porch,  supported  by  pillars  all 
entwined  by  creeping  plants,  one  could  look  across 
the  sharp  descent  of  the  lawn,  over  a  field  or  two 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          "5 

and  a  clump  of  trees  upon  the  lower  levels,  directly 
upon  the  river  only  three  hundred  yards  away,  and 
there  the  shining  surface  of  the  stream  could  be  fol- 
lowed along  the  windings  of  the  valley  until  it  van- 
ished far  down  towards  the  city. 

Dolly  and  George  took  seats  in  the  shady  corner 
of  the  porch  where  the  south  wind  blew,  and  while 
she  looked  at  the  green  of  the  hills  and  the  silver 
of  the  water,  he  pointed  out  to  her  the  places  of 
interest  in  the  valley.  When  he  showed  her  the 
cluster  of  trees  that  marked  the  springs  at  Spring 
Mill,  the  visit  to  the  gipsy  camp  came  to  Dolly's 
remembrance,  and  she  told  him  of  it. 

"And  the  woman  would  not  tell  me  my  fortune," 
she  said  with  mock  indignation. 

"I  would  not  mourn  for  that  if  I  were  thee,"  said 
George. 

"You  don't  believe  in  palmistry  then,  do  you?" 

"I  should  think  thee  was  joking  if  thee  said  thee 
believed  in  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  responded  the  girl.  "There  are 
some  queer  things  about  the  hands,  and  queer  dif- 
ferences in  hands,  too." 

"Couldn't  we  say  the  same  of  ears  and  noses  and 
mouths,  and  even  elbows?  A  look  at  a  man's  face 
will  tell  much  more  than  a  look  at  his  hand;  much 
more  to  me,  at  any  rate." 

"Perhaps  because  you  have  never  learned  palm- 
istry." 

"Has  thee  learned  it?" 

"No,  but  still  I  know  what  some  of  the  lines  and 
criss-crosses  mean,  and — shall  I  try  to  tell  your  fu- 
ture from  your  hand?" 


116  Tke  Quakeress. 

"If  thee  chooses,"  answered  George,  placing  his 
broad,  brown  right  hand,  palm  upward,  upon  the 
low  table  that  stood  between  him  and  his  compan- 
ion. 

Dolly  drew  her  chair  nearer  and  leaned  over  the 
table,  looking  closely  at  the  hand.  With  her  own 
ungloved  fingers  she  spread  out  the  great  fingers 
and  held  down  the  tips  of  them  that  the  palm  might 
have  strong  relief.  With  the  index  ringer  of  her 
other  hand  she  indicated  some  of  the  lines  of 
George's  palm,  touching  them  now  and  then  while 
she  seemed  to  study  them  intently. 

"You  are  rich  and  fortunate,"  she  said,  without 
lifting  her  eyes.  "There  is  much  more  good  fortune 
in  store  for  you,  but  I  see  here  the  shadow  of  a  great 
disappointment;  you  are  crossed  in  love;  you  will 
never  have  your  heart's  desire." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "excepting  that  now  you  must 
read  my  hand." 

She  thrust  out  her  arm,  bare  to  the  elbow,  round- 
ed, white  and  beautiful,  and  put  her  upturned  hand 
where  his  had  been. 

He  placed  his  elbows  upon  the  table  and  his 
clasped  hands  rested  upon  his  temples  while  he 
looked  at  the  soft,  moist,  white  palm  that  lay  there 
before  him.  Dolly  pretended  not  to  watch  him.  Her 
face  was  half  turned  away.  A  drop  of  sweat  formed 
upon  his  forehead  and  rolled  down  his  cheek.  He 
brushed  it  away  with  his  left  hand.  The  veins  stood 
out  upon  his  temples. 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


"Well?"  asked  the  girl.     "What  do  you  see  there?" 

He  made  no  answer.  He  withdrew  his  arm  from 
the  table;  he  put  forward  his  right  hand  and  touched 
her  fingers;  then,  a  moment  hesitating,  he  lifted  her 
hand  and  bending  over  it  he  kissed  it. 

She  did  not  snatch  her  hand  away.  She  withdrew 
it  slowly  and  gently  and  then  she  looked  off  across 
the  lawn  to  the  river. 

"You  are  as  indefinite  as  the  gipsy  woman  was," 
she  said.  "Could  you  read  Abby's  fortune  any  bet- 
ter?" 

"Let  me  see  thy  hand  again,"  he  said. 

A  moment  passed  before  she  responded.  "Per- 
haps he  is  actually  going  to  propose  to  me,"  she  said 
to  herself.  Then  she  put  her  hand  again  upon  the 
table,  and  still  averted  her  eyes. 

He  did  not  take  it.  He  put  his  own  big  brown 
hand  over  it  and  held  it  there  and  then  looking  at 
her  until  she  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  he  said  : 

"I  could  read  thy  soul  more  easily  than  thy  palm." 

The  sudden  solemnity  of  his  manner  impressed 
her.  "He  is  going  to  preach  to  me,  perhaps,"  she 
said  to  herself.  She  felt  defiant. 

"It  is  a  singular  gift,"  she  answered. 

"Thy  face  is  so  fair  that  thee  seems  to  belong  with 
the  angels,  but  —  " 

"Men  always  tell  women  they  are  angels.  The 
compliment  is  somewhat  worn.  However,  you  were 
going  to  qualify  it.  I  am  like  an  angel,  'but'  —  " 

"I  have  never  had  the  habit  to  pay  idle  compli- 
ments," said  George.  "I  will  make  no  qualification. 
I  will  not  judge  thee.  I  will  not  even  claim  that  I 


118  The  Quakeress. 

can  understand  thee,  but  this  I  will  do:  I  will  long 
for  thee  that  thy  thought  may  be  as  lovely  as  thy 
countenance." 

"Now  that  is  a  compliment;  a  handsome  compli- 
ment! But  you  are  hurting  my  hand.  Let  it  go, 
please." 

He  lifted  his  hand,  and  she  withdrew  hers  from 
the  table.  He  arose  and  stood  by  the  porch-railing 
facing  her.  She  was  angry,  but  she  was  curious  to 
hear  what  he  would  say.  He  was  a  handsome, 
splendid  fellow,  even  if  he  would  insist  upon  prefer- 
ing  preaching  to  flirtation. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  hurt  thee,"  he  said.  "Thee  will 
forgive  me,  will  thee  not?  I  would  suffer  much  to 
help  thee,  rather  than  to  hurt  thee." 

"Help  my  thoughts?  Why  bother  yourself  about 
my  thoughts,  whether  they  be  lovely  or  unlovely? 
At  least  they  are  my  own?" 

"Thine  own  indeed,  but  they  influence  other  peo- 
ple; thee  does  not  live  to  thyself,  nor  I  to  myself. 
What  I  think,  that  I  am;  and  what  I  am  affects  my 
fellow  men  for  good  or  evil.  When  I  choose  my 
thoughts  I  pick  my  company." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Where  does  thee  think  hell  is?" 

"Down  below  there,  somewhere;  that  is  if  there 
is  a  hell.  What  is  your  interest  in  it  just  at  this  mo- 
ment? The  fire  is  hot,  I  suppose,  and  they  are 
poking  one  another  with  hot  pitchforks  and  other 
unpleasant  implements.  The  subject  is  not  an  allur- 
ing one  for  contemplation." 

"Hell  is  in  the  soul.  When  I  have  wicked 
thoughts  I  am  in  hell." 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          "9 

"Are  you  there  often?"  she  asked,  but  he  did  not 
heed  her. 

"All  the  evil  in  this  world  is  evil  thought.  All  the 
evil  in  the  other  world  is  evil  thought.  It  is  one 
thing  in  both  worlds.  When  I  think  evil  I  have  dev- 
ils for  my  comrades.  When  my  thought  is  holy  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  is  within  me.  I  can  have  either : 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  or  the  kingdom  of  hell.  My 
best  wish  for  thee  is  that  thee  shall  be  angelic  in  thy 
inmost  soul  where  thee  touches  the  spirit  world. 
God  forgive  me  that  I  kissed  thy  hand  a  while  ago. 
God  help  thee,  and  help  me  also,  lest  when  I  have 
preached  to  others  I  myself  should  be  a  castaway. 
The  fear  of  that  is  always  with  me.  It  was  my  duty 
not  to  be  flippant  with  thee,  or  to  have  dalliance  with 
thee,  but  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  Master  saying, 
'She  is  mine.  I  gave  myself  for  her.'  That  is  it!  I 
must  reverence  thee  and  look  at  thee  from  afar,  be- 
cause thee  is  His  trophy.  Thee  is  bought  with  a 
price." 

Dolly  sat  with  her  head  bowed  and  her  eyes  upon 
the  floor  while  George  spoke,  and  grew  more  and 
more  fervid  until  he  ended.  She  tapped  her  foot 
impatiently  as  she  listened  and  in  her  heart  cared 
for  nothing  that  he  said.  Her  preference  was  for 
dalliance. 

"And  now,  please,  let  us  return  to  the  picnic,"  she 
said  rising.  "The  experience  has  been  delightful, 
but  we  must  not  be  too  self-indulgent." 

They  stepped  from  the  porch  to  the  lawn,  and 
turned  toward  the  wood  beyond  the  farm  buildings 
and  the  mown  field.  Both  were  silent  for  a  time. 
Then  she  laughed  and  said : 


The  Quakeress. 


"Thank  you  for  showing  me  your  lovely  place. 
It  was  so  kind  of  you,  and  then  you  are  a  much  bet- 
ter preacher,  I  think,  than  Uncle  Ponder." 

He  did  not  respond  to  her.  He  walked  slowly  by 
her  side,  with  a  long  stride,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him  and  with  mingled  shame  and  fear  in  his  soul  for 
himself  and  for  her.  They  came  into  the  broad  road 
that  wound  about  the  hill  through  the  woods  on  the 
side  towards  the  river,  and  when  they  had  come 
around  to  the  northern  slope,  they  passed  a  sharp 
turn  of  the  road,  and  there  they  saw  two  familiar 
figures. 


When  Clayton  left  the  picnic  ground  with  Abby, 
they  strolled  through  the  wood  to  the  place  where 
a  great  rock  overhanging  the  pathway  and  upheld 
by  the  stony  earth  on  either  side  made  a  kind  of 
cave  which  the  people  of  the  country-side  named 
the  Indian  Cave.  A  rustic  seat  had  been  made 
there  and  Abby  and  Clayton  tarried  to  look  at  the 
cave,  which  was  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  fires 
kindled  by  sojourners  in  the  forest.  Then  they 
turned  and  sat  to  face  the  view  to  the  north.  The 
brown,  dead  leaves,  gathered  for  a  century,  made  a 
cushion  for  their  feet,  and  over  them  and  around 
them  the  foliage  of  the  great  trees  shaded  them  and 
framed  the  picture  of  the  valley  below  them.  A 
thread  of  a  stream  dashed  vehemently  down  the  nar- 
row gorge  a  dozen  feet  from  them  and  plunged  into 
the  river  far  down  the  hill-side.  Over  and  beyond  the 
river,  softened  by  the  faint  haze  that  filled  the  air, 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


lay  Connock  and  behind  it  the  sweet  Plymouth  val- 
ley with  tilled  fields  and  low  farm  houses  and  clumps 
of  woodland,  and  here  and  there  the  white  gash  of 
a  quarry.  There  was  no  sound  but  of  the  rushing 
water  of  the  brook  and  of  the  fluttering  leaves,  ex- 
cepting when  from  the  river-side  came  the  roar  of 
a  swift  flying  train  or  the  shrill  scream  of  a  steam 
whistle. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  while  and  upon  Abby's 
spirit  came  a  feeling  of  solemnity  that  was  almost 
oppressive.  She  felt  that  serious  things  were  to  be 
said  to-day,  and  that  she  should  not  go  home  with 
her  love  still  voiceless. 

"It  is  more  beautiful  than  my  own  country,"  at 
last  said  Clayton,  making  with  his  right  hand  a  quick 
gesture  toward  the  distant  scene,  "although  I  think 
that  very  beautiful.  But  perhaps  it  is  not  just  the 
loveliness  of  the  landscape  that  makes  it  so  charm- 
ing for  me.  The  mind  gives  its  own  coloring  to  the 
picture  always,  does  it  not?" 

"I  think  so,"  answered  Abby. 

"Beautiful  as  it  is,  however,"  said  Clayton  with 
mournfulness,  "I  shall  see  it  no  more,"  and  he  thrust 
out  his  hand  again  as  if  to  wave  farewell  to  the  val- 
ley, the  river  and  the  trees. 

A  little  shiver  ran  through  Abby's  frame  and  she 
clenched  her  hands  closer  as  she  held  them  in  her 
lap. 

"Is  thee  going  away?  Must  thee  go  home 
again?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"To-day,"  he  answered,  still  looking  at  the  far 
scene,  as  if  he  dared  not  turn  his  eyes  to  her.  "I 
must  go  to-day." 


122  The  Quakeress. 


''I  am  sorry,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  seemed  not  to  hear  her,  and  then  he  said: 

"I  have  no  summons  to  go.  There  is  no  business 
to  call  me.  My  father  has  not  said  he  needed  me. 
Perhaps  I  may  not  go  to  my  home.  Perhaps — " 

"Thee  will  not  become  a  soldier,  will  thee?  O 
do  not  do  that."  Abby's  cheeks  were  white  and  her 
eyes  were  moist  with  the  coming  tears. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Clayton,  still  not  turning 
his  face  to  hers.  "I  am  in  a  strange  tangle  of  per- 
plexity. The  South  seems  sometimes  to  call  to  me 
to  come  to  help  her  in  her  cause;  but — but  there  is 
something  else — there  is  something  mightier  than 
the  home  tie  or  the  love  of  country;  something  that — 
Do  you  know  why  these  woods  and  waters  and  all 
these  rolling  hills  and  green  valleys  are  lovely  to 
me?  Do  you  know?"  he  asked  almost  fiercely,  and 
then,  turning  his  face  fu1!  to  hers  and  dropping  his 
voice  to  tones  of  tenderness  he  answered  his  own 
question.  "It  is  because  you  are  here." 

Abby  did  not  speak.  She  clenched  her  hands 
tighter  and  the  flush  rose  upon  her  cheek  and  spread 
to  her  forehead. 

"Yes,"  said  Clayton,  passion  beginning  to  color 
his  voice.  "I  came  to  Connock  reluctantly,  because 
I  ought;  because  my  mother  wished  me  to  be  con- 
siderate of  my  aunt.  I  thought  to  be  wearied  of  it 
in  a  day  or  two  and  to  go  back,  leaving  my  sister 
here.  But  when  I  saw  you  sitting  on  the  porch 
with  your  mother,  I  knew  that  I  should  stay.  I 
knew  that  the  crisis  of  my  life  had  come.  You  will 
not  believe  me  that  I  passed  a  sleepless  night  that 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          I23 

first  night  of  my  arrival  here.  You  will  not  believe 
that  I  have  been  in  half  delirium  since  that  time; 
exaltation  sometimes  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  could 
not  bear  such  joy,  and  then  despair  that  would  fill 
all  my  soul  with  pain. 

He  saw  that  the  tears  were  trickling  down  Abby's 
cheeks  as  he  spoke. 

"For,  while  it  was  plain  to  me  that  there  could  be 
no  peace  for  me  again,  no  peace  unless  you  were 
mine,  I  said  to  myself  how  shall  such  an  one  as  I 
with  his  life  all  stained  and  sinful,  dare  to  ask  that 
girl  to  join  her  pure  and  holy  life  to  his?  You 
seemed  beyond  me,  far,  far  beyond  me,  and  you 
seem  so  now;  and  yet  you  have  been  very  gracious 
to  me  and  have  not  disdained  me  and  have  put  your 
hand  sometimes  in  mine.  So  I  could  not  help  loving 
you,  and  then  the  hope  would  come  that  perhaps 
despite  my  unworthiness — despite — despite — (I  can- 
not say  it)  you  might  stoop  to  return  that  love." 

Abby  arose  and  walked  to  the  brink  of  the  little 
stream  and  put  her  hands  over  her  face.  Clayton, 
surprised  at  the  movement,  sat  still  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  rising,  he  went  toward  her. 

"It  is  over  then?"  he  said,  standing  close  behind 
her.  "I  should  not  have  spoken.  I  knew  that  I 
ought  not  to  speak.  But  I  am  going  away.  I  shall 
be  gone  at  once.  But  oh !  that  I  may  see  your  face 
once  more  and  hear  you  say  that  you  forgive  me!" 

She  turned  and  a  swift  glance  showed  him  that  he 
had  misjudged  her.  He  flung  his  arms  passionately 
about  her,  and  with  her  arms  clasping  his  neck,  she 
hid  her  face  upon  his  breast  half  crying.  He  lifted 


"4  The  Quakeress. 

her  head  gently  and  kissed  her  fondly  and  with 
misty  eyes  she  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"You  love  me  my  dearest,  you  do  love  me  then?" 

"Yes !"  she  whispered,  and  once  more  he  held  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  He  led  her 
to  the  rustic  bench. 

"Thee  will  not  go  now?"  she  asked  with  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  will  not  go  to-day.  I  cannot 
bear  to  leave  you,  my  darling,  my  love,  my  Abby! 
I  must  have  time  to  think,  time  to  tell  you  things 
you  must  know." 

"What  things?"  asked  Abby.  There  was  in  his 
voice  and  manner  that  which  gave  her  foreboding 
of  evil,  even  in  this  very  ecstasy  of  her  joy. 

"Not  now,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  as  though 
to  dispel  a  vision  that  was  hateful.  "Not  now,  when 
this  splendor  of  happiness,  this  miracle  of  peace  has 
come  to  us.  Let  me  look  into  your  'eyes  and  see 
there  your  love  for  me!  Let  me  hold  you  fast  and 
kiss  you,  my  sweet,  dear  love.  God  gave  you  to  me 
from  the  very  beginning.  You  were  always  mine, 
my  precious  wife." 

"I  thank  Him  for  it.     It  is  His  gift  to  us  both." 

"Did  you  love  me  from  the  first,  dear  Abby?" 

"O  yes !"  she  said,  dropping  her  eyes. 

"When  you  first  saw  me?"  demanded  this  lover 
with  eager  curiosity. 

"Yes,  and  before.  When  Mrs.  Ponder  told  me 
thee  was  coming;  then — I  do  not  know  why;  I  did 
not  understand,  but  I  felt  sure  thee  was  coming  to 
claim  me;  sure  of  it." 


Feast  of  Tabernacles. 


"It  was  from  eternity!  It  will  be  forever,"  said 
Clayton  with  solemn  fervor. 

"Forever!"  repeated  Abby.  "I  will  never  change." 

"Not  if  sorrow  come  and  separation?  Not  if 
bitter  fortune  says  Disown  him?  Not  if  I  go  away 
to  the  Southland  and  to  the  wild  chance  of  war?" 

"Not  that,  dear  Clayton!  O,  not  that!  I  cannot 
bear  that  you  should  fight.  We  are  peace  people. 
But  to  fight  against  my  country!  I  pray,  pray  that 
you  will  not  do  that." 

"I  feel  sometimes  like  a  coward  that  I  stay  at 
home  when  all  my  people  are  in  arms,  but  it  is  my 
strong  love  for  you  that  holds  me.  I  may  not  go  if 
you  will  weep  for  me,  but  O  my  love!  there  may 
be  other  things  to  thrust  us  apart  and  give  us  heart- 
ache. Though  your  father  and  your  mother  should 
frown  upon  us  and  your  Friends  in  the  meeting 
should  disapprove,  you  will  love  me  still,  will  you 
not?" 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  answered  Abby,  with  a  shadow 
of  dread  in  her  heart.  "I  have  lost  the  power  to  con- 
trol my  feelings.  Father  and  mother  will  be  most 
sorrowful  and  Friends  will  cast  me  out,  but  if  I 
must  die  for  thee  I  will." 

Again  he  kissed  her  passionately. 

"I  asked  too  much  of  you  when  I  asked  you  to  be 
mine,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  worthy  any  sacrifice  and 
yet  I  summon  you  to  it.  I  summon  myself  to  it.  I 
am  ready  for  it.  I  cannot  help  loving  you  until  love 
seems  to  me  the  whole  of  life,  but,  rather  than  you 
should  suffer,  I  will  give  it  all  up.  I  will  go  away 
and  never  see  your  face  again.  Shall  I  go?" 


The  Quakeress. 


She  put  her  hand  in  his  and  looked  gravely  in  his 
face: 

"No;  anything  but  that;  anything.  I  cannot  give 
thee  up." 

"I  have  asked  myself  a  thousand  times,"  he  said, 
"the  source  of  this  strange  and  wonderful  passion 
that  impelled  you  to  me  and  me  to  you.  We  did 
not  create  it;  we  are  not  responsible  for  it;  we  dare 
not  defy  it.  The  impulse  is  Divine.  The  Creator  of 
all  things  created  us  for  each  other;  and  no  human 
authority  can  put  us  asunder." 

"Let  us  wait  patiently,"  she  said  with  a  tranquil 
voice.  "The  same  Spirit  that  led  you  to  me  and  gave 
you  to  me,  will  show  us  the  right  way  if  we  trust 
ourselves  wholly  to  Him." 

Clayton  looked  troubled  and  he  made  as  if  he 
would  speak  to  her;  but  he  held  his  peace,  and  at 
last  he  said: 

"If  we  are  helped  in  that  way,  it  will  be  your  fel- 
lowship with  Him  that  helps  us.  I  dare  not  ask  for 
a  blessing  for  myself." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  slowly  they  walked  along 
Abby,  loyal  in  her  love  for  Clayton  and  without  a 
doubt  of  him.  "And  now,"  she  said,  "shall  we  not 
return  to  the  company?  It  is  growing  late." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  slowly  they  walked  along 
the  forest-path,  both  joyful  in  triumphant  love,  but 
in  the  woman's  soul  joy  was  mingled  strangely  with 
foreboding,  whilst  the  heart  of  the  man  bore  the 
burden  of  clear  certainty  that  on  this  day  he  had 
chosen  dishonor  for  his  portion. 

Presently  Clayton   felt   Abby's   hand  clench   upon 


Feast  of  Tabernacles.          I27 

his  and  she  withdrew  her  hand.  She  had  heard  foot- 
steps. She  turned  and  saw  George  and  Dolly  upon 
the  road  behind  them.  Dolly  had  seen  her  hand  in 
Clayton's.  George  was  not  sure  that  the  quick  mo- 
tion he  saw  was  the  act  of  unclasping  the  hands  of 
the  two,  but  the  thought  came  into  his  mind  and 
with  it  a  flash  of  anguish.  No  suspicion  had  ever 
before  come  to  him  that  Clayton  might  supplant 
him.  Now  the  full  force  of  the  possibility  swept  in 
upon  his  soul,  and  instantly  he  saw  in  it  retribution 
for  the  sin  into  which  he  had,  in  his  thought,  been 
led  by  the  woman  who  walked  with  him. 

Together  the  four,  when  civil  greetings  had  been 
exchanged,  walked  with  outward  tranquillity  to  the 
noisy  picnic  ground;  and  Dolly  deep  down  in  her 
heart  was  exultant  that  Clayton  had  won  the  love 
of  the  Quaker  girl  and  that  in  doing  so  he  had 
stabbed  at  the  heart  of  the  man  who  had  dared  to 
repulse  and  reprove  her. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
In  tke  Ckurck. 

CLAYTON  HARLEY  was  already  married  when  he  de- 
clared his  love  for  Abby  and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 
The  marriage  was  hidden  from  the  members  of  his 
family  and  his  friends,  and  his  wife  was  far  away  from 
him  in  another  country.  He  bore  the  burden  of  his 
secret  lightly  while  he  cared  no  more  for  any  woman 
than  he  cared  for  his  wife;  but  it  had  become  heavy 
since  he  began  to  love  Abby,  and  all  but  intolerable 
since  she  had  plighted  her  troth  to  him.  He  had 
come  home  from  the  picnic  and  from  that  entrancing 
love-passage  with  her  to  a  night  of  misery  and  self- 
reproach.  In  the  sleepless  hours  he  thought  of  a 
hundred  plans  for  extricating  himself  from  the  dis- 
honor in  which  he  was  involved;  but  every  one  of 
these  was  shattered  against  the  hard  facts  that  his 
marriage  with  Abby  was  barred  by  another  marriage 
and  that,  even  if  he  could  free  himself  from  the  wife 
he  scorned,  the  pure  and  gentle  Quaker  girl  would 
be  unlikely  to  marry  a  man  in  such  a  situation.  An- 
other thing  was  clear  to  him :  he  could  jiot  give  her 
up.  He  had  gone  too  far  for  that;  too  far  for  him 
and  for  her.  He  truly  loved  her  and  he  was  not  capa- 
ble of  such  a  sacrifice.  He  knew  that  she  loved  him 
truly  and  he  feared  both  the  effect  upon  her  of  revela- 
tion of  the  truth,  and  that  she  would  despise  him  if 
she  did  not  hate  him. 

But  out  of  bewilderment  and  conflicting  emotion, 


In  the  Church.  "9 

out  of  the  struggle  between  inclination  and  positive 
obligation  there  came  at  last  conviction  that  he  must 
find  courage  to  tell  the  truth  to  Abby,  and  to  accept 
the  consequences.  This  he  resolved  to  do,  dreadful 
as  the  task  was  for  him  and  repulsive  as  the  revela- 
tion must  be  for  her. 

Through  the  early  morning,  holding  fast  to  a  pur- 
pose that  wavered  often  and  sometimes  seemed  likely 
to  lose  its  strength,  he  considered  in  what  manner 
and  in  what  secluded  place  he  might  give  to  the  girl 
this  terrible  confidence.  There  must  be  privacy  and 
security  from  interruption  and  he  must  not  take  her 
far  from  home,  for  how  should  the  return  journey  be 
made  if  she  should  spurn  him  ? 

He  thought  of  his  uncle's  church,  close  at  hand, 
and,  sure  of  Dr.  Ponder's  habits,  he  resolved  that  he 
would  induce  Abby  to  go  thither  with  him  at  an  hour 
of  the  morning  when  no  one  would  be  likely  to  in- 
trude upon  them.  He  would  make  her  love  for  music 
the  bait  to  tempt  her,  for  he  had  no  little  skill  as  an 
organist. 

Abby  was  quick  to  consent  to  go  with  him,  and  at 
once  they  entered  the  church  through  the  street- 
door.  Clayton  locked  the  door  again  when  he  had 
closed  it. 

"I  did  not  know  thee  was  an  organ-player,"  said 
Abby,  as  Clayton  opened  the  instrument  and,  sitting 
upon  the  stool,  started  the  motor  and  arranged  the 
stops. 

"I  learned  something  of  the  art  while  I  was  at  col- 
lege," said  Clayton,  "but  hardly  enough  to  call  my- 
self an  organist." 


The  Quakeress. 


Abby  retreated  to  a  distant  part  of  the  church  that 
she  might  listen.  The  day  was  clouded  and  the 
painted  windows  permitted  but  a  half-light  to  fill  the 
room.  Before  Clayton  touched  the  instrument  there 
was  perfect  silence.  A  faint  odor  of  the  flowers  that 
stood  upon  the  table  in  the  chancel  lingered  in  the 
air.  The  girl  was  not  used  to  the  sentiment  that 
finds  sacredness  in  buildings,  but  she  felt  it  now  and 
felt  it  strongly.  The  crimson  tints  of  the  huge  win- 
dows, the  warm  color  upon  the  walls,  the  deep  yellow 
tints  of  the  roof-timbers,  the  glittering  brasses  of  the 
pulpit  and  the  lectern,  the  draperies  and  ornaments 
of  the  communion  table,  the  solemn  hush  that  seemed 
to  fill  the  building  —  all  these  things  impressed  a  mind 
that  was  ever  sensitive  to  such  influences.  And  when 
Clayton,  beginning  with  the  soft  sweet  stops,  filled 
the  holy  place  with  rich  harmonies,  Abby  scarcely 
could  restrain  her  tears. 

The  player  became  bolder  and  the  tenderness  of 
the  music  gave  way  to  the  grandeur  and  exultation 
of  the  diapasons.  To  Abby  the  tones  of  the  organ, 

"Moaning  like  a  god  in  pain," 

were  made  more  rapturous  by  her  passion  for  the 
player.  She  thought  him  beautiful  as  he  sat  there 
swaying  his  body  slightly  and  moving  his  head  while 
he  handled  the  instrument. 

When  Clayton  ended  the  playing  he  closed  the  lid 
of  the  console  and  wheeling  about,  descended  from 
the  stool,  resolved  that  now  he  would  venture  upon 
the  dreadful  task  to  which  duty  called  him.  The  girl 
would  have  had  him  remain  longer  at  the  organ,  but 


In  the  Church. 


be  would  not,  and  he  moved  towards  her  trying  to 
hide  behind  an  appearance  of  levity  the  tremulous- 
ness  that  was  in  his  soul.  He  turned  for  a  moment 
into  the  pulpit  and  addressing  Abby  he  said: 

"Here  Uncle  Ponder  pours  out  his  soporifics  upon 
the  congregation.  I  wonder  if  I  could  put  you  to 
sleep  if  I  should  talk  to  you  from  here?" 

Abby  laughed  lightly,  but  she  had  been  too  deeply 
moved  by  the  music  to  respond  in  feeling  to  this  fool- 
ishness. Clayton  came  into  the  aisle,  and  as  he 
walked  slowly  along  he  looked  at  the  great  window 
with  the  saints  and  the  angels  shining  in  the  light,  and 
he  said  : 

"It  is  a  queer  notion,  isn't  it,  to  put  plates  around 
their  heads?  Fancy  your  own  portrait,  Abby,  with 
a  white  disk  for  a  background  !" 

He  came  and  sat  in  the  pew  with  the  girl  in  the 
gloomy  corner  almost  behind  one  of  the  great  pillars 
that  upheld  the  yellow  timbers.  She  was  glad  to 
have  him  there.  He  took  her  hand  in  his.  She  felt 
entirely  happy,  and  she  had  no  impulse  to  speak.  The 
sacredness  of  the  place  seemed  to  give  a  kind  of  con- 
secration to  her  affection.  She  began  to  perceive  in 
what  manner  the  colors,  the  atmosphere,  the  trap- 
pings of  the  sanctuary  warm  the  emotions  of  wor- 
shipers. It  would  have  given  her  contentment  to 
sit  there  for  hours,  in  silence,  holding  the  hand  of  her 
lover.  Her  home,  and  all  Connock,  seemed  far  away, 
as  if  she  were  in  a  strange  distant  country,  filled  with 
the  glory  of  a  new  and  higher  and  holier  life. 

Clayton  would  have  broken  the  silence  if  he  could 
have  summoned  courage  to  speak.  He  knew  he  must 
do  it,  but  horror  and  dismay  filled  him  as  he  thought 


Tlie  Quakeress. 


how  his  avowal  would  plunge  this  lovely  and  loving 
girl  from  the  exaltation  of  happiness  to  an  abyss  of 
sorrow  and  shame.  More  than  once  in  his  mind  he 
had  framed  a  sentence  which  would  serve  to  prepare 
her  for  the  revelation,  but  before  his  lips  could  utter 
it  he  quailed  before  the  terror  of  the  ordeal,  and 
withheld  his  words.  At  last  he  said  : 

"Abby!"  and  then  he  could  go  no  further. 

She  looked  at  him  in  answer,  and  she  saw  that  his 
face  was  pale.  His  hand  grew  cold  in  hers. 

"Is  thee  ill,  dear?"  she  asked  with  some  disquiet. 

Clayton  laughed  nervously,  and  said: 

"O,  no!  Why  should  you  think  so?"  Then  he 
tried  to  divert  his  own  thoughts  and  hers.  He  with- 
drew his  hand,  and  pointing  to  the  window  he  said, 
in  jesting  tones  : 

The  painters  who  put  the  wings  on  those  angels 
couldn't  have  known  or  cared  much  for  anatomy, 
could  they?  Human  shoulder-blades  and  heavenly 
wings  are  not  near  relations." 

"Isn't  there  Scripture  authority  for  it?"  she  asked. 
"Of  course  thee  knows  that  the  wings  are  merely  fig- 
urative. Don't  they  represent  swift,  unimpeded  move- 
ment, the  flight  of  the  spirit  as  through  air;  and  also 
instant  obedience?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"I  think  the  idea  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"You  believe  in  angels?"  he  asked. 

"Surely;  and  thee  does,  too?" 

"I  believe  in  human  angels,  anyhow;  and  I  would 
rather  they  had  no  wings." 

"There  are  good  angels,"  said  Abby,  "and  bad  an- 


In  the  Church. 


gels.  Isn't  that  an  awful  thing  to  think  of?  Evil  in 
a  spiritual  form;  infinite  power  for  harm;  inextin- 
guishable life  that  is  all  hate,  as  contrasted  with  life 
that  is  all  love  ? 

"Awful,"  responded  Clayton.  "Do  you  remember 
Victor  Hugo's  poem  'The  Djinns?'  In  the  rhythm 
of  the  verse  you  can  almost  hear  the  flapping  of  the 
bat  wings." 

"Are  there  men  who  are  all  evil?"  asked  Abby, 
with  a  half  shudder,  '"and  who  carry  their  wickedness 
with  them  into  the  spirit-world?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Clayton,  "but  I  am  sure  most  men 
who  sin  do  it  largely  through  force  of  circumstances. 
Folly,  ignorance,  hot  passion,  sudden,  overwhelming 
temptation  are  accountable  for  more  sin  than  cold, 
malignant  purpose." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Abby.  She  was  thinking  how  far 
she  was  from  the  reach  of  such  influences  and  how 
safe  she  was  in  the  shelter  of  her  father's  home  and  of 
the  love  of  a  good  man,  when  Clayton  desperately 
seized  this  chance  to  tell  her  the  truth  about  himself. 

"Abby,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was  not  quite  his 
own,  and  that  seemed  to  him  to  come  from  a  throat 
all  the  muscles  of  which  were  tense.  "I  wish  to  tell 
you  a  story." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  but  the  strangeness  of  his 
voice  and  his  manner  gave  her  a  feeling  of  dread. 

"I  knew  a  boy  once  who  when  he  had  quitted  col- 
lege went  upon  an  errand  to  Mexico.  Some  of  his 
people  had  property  there,  mines  and  other  things, 
and  he  was  sent  thither  partly  that  he  might  look  into 
the  business  and  report  upon  it,  but  chiefly,  I  sup- 


The  Quakeress. 


pose,  that  he  might  see  a  bit  of  the  world  and  learn 
to  take  care  of  himself.  He  was  gone  for  a  year,  and 
so  little  did  he  learn  about  taking  care  of  himself  that 
he  became  the  victim  of  a  sharp  woman  and  a  mer- 
cenary father  and  like  a  fool  married  the  woman." 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this?"  asked  Abby,  into 
whose  mind  a  faint  gleam  of  fear  had  come. 

Clayton  did  not  heed  her  inquiry. 

"This  stupid  boy  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  in 
love,  and  the  woman  and  the  father  so  entangled  him 
that,  when  he  found  he  had  deluded  himself,  he  could 
not  retreat.  He  married  her  and  then,  his  eyes  wide 
opened  by  the  ghastly  consequences  of  his  folly,  he 
left  her  and  left  her  forever.  This  boy  afterwards  met 
a  lovely  girl  to  whom  he  was  drawn  by  the  force  of  a 
passion  high  and  holy  and  it  became  his  duty  to  tell 
her  the  truth." 

Abby  was  weeping  and  her  face  was  white. 

"I  am  that  boy,"  continued  Clayton.  "I  have 
sinned  against  you,  and  I  have  brought  you  here  that 
I  might  make  confession  to  you  and  ask  your  forgive- 
ness." 

Abby  made  no  answer.  In  a  moment  all  her  joy 
had  shriveled  up  and  vanished  and  she  found  herself 
enveloped  in  misery  which  almost  paralyzed  her  fac- 
ulties. 

Clayton  leaned  towards  her  and  waited  for  her  to 
speak;  but  she  looked  out  through  her  tears  into 
what  seemed  thick  darkness  beyond,  her  and  still 
held  her  peace. 

He  reached  for  her  hand  and  took  it  in  his.  She 
yielded  to  him  for  a  moment  and  then  gently  with- 
drew her  hand. 


In  the  Church.  135 

"Can  you  say  nothing  to  me,  Abby?"  he  asked. 

She  tried  to  turn  her  head  to  look  at  him,  but  the 
movement  ended  instantly,  and  she  folded  her  hands 
upon  her  lap  and  stayed  silent. 

Clayton  refrained  from  urging  her  further.  He  sat 
still  beside  her,  loathing  himself  as  he  believed  she 
loathed  him,  and  filled  with  fear  that  the  shock  of  this 
revelation  might  bring  grave  harm  to  her.  While 
he  waited  his  mind  recurred  to  the  scene  at  the  In- 
dian cave  and  to  the  rapture  with  which  he  had  found 
her  yielding  to  his  caresses.  For  him  that  seemed 
now  clear  infamy. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  said,  rising,  when  many  minutes 
had  elapsed  without  utterance  from  either  of  them. 
He  arose  with  her,  and  with  deference  of  manner  as 
if  he  should  hardly  dare  to  speak  to  her,  he  said  : 

"And  all  is  over  between  us?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  wearily,  looking" 
away  from  him.  "I  am  but  an  ignorant  girl,  not  used 
to  the  world's  ways.  What  shall  I  do?  Have  pity 
upon  my  weakness.  I  know  not  which  way  to  turn." 

"I  have  sinned  deeply  against  you,"  he  said. 

She  seemed  as  if  she  did  not  hear  him. 

"How  shall  I  love  another  woman's  husband  and 
not  sin  against  God  ?" 

"But  I  will  be  free,"  he  dared  to  say. 

"Divorced !  My  people  will  scorn  me  if  I  marry 
one  whose  lawful  wife  is  living.  No;  not  that!  not 
that !" 

"There  is  no  hope  then?"  he  said.  "The  door  is 
closed  forever?" 

"It  is  all  darkness  to  me,"  she  murmured.  "It  is 
the  bitterness  of  death." 


136  The  Quakeress. 

He  could  say  nothing.  Then  turning  to  him  she 
said:  "Will  thee  not  go  back  to  her  and  be  faithful 
to  her?  Then  I  can  take  up  my  heavy  burden  and 
bear  it  and  thee  can  bear  thine  as  thee  ought  to  do. 
This  is  what  people  have  meant  when  they  spoke  of 
enduring  pain  and  sorrow.  It  is  hard,  but  it  is  better 
than  disgrace." 

"I  cannot  give  you  up,"  he  said  passionately,  and 
seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  She  looked  down  at 
him  as  she  caught  her  hand  away  and  said,  sadly: 

"That  was  very  sweet  to  me  yesterday;  but  now! 
You  put  shame  upon  me,  Clayton." 

"Forgive  me !  O  forgive  me !"  he  said.  "Surely 
you  cannot  believe  that  I  would  do  that !  I  love  you 
so  truly  that  I  would  willingly  give  my  life  to  save 
you  from  one  pang  of  sorrow.  You  know  that,  do 
you  not?  I  have  not  sinned  against  you  willingly  or 
deliberately.  I  could  no  more  help  loving  you  when 
I  saw  you  than  I  could  stop  the  beating  of  my  heart. 
I  am  not  wicked.  I  am  entangled  in  misfortune." 

"I  can  believe  it,"  she  answered,  "but  still  we  must 
go  apart.  I  will  bid  thee  farewell." 

"Not  yet!"  he  said  eagerly.  "Hear  me  but  for  a 
moment  longer.  If  you  leave  me  now  you  will  never 
understand  me;  you  will  never  cease  to  censure  me. 
I  am  willing  to  go  away  if  you  wish  it  as  soon  as  we 
leave  this  church,  but  O !  do  not  thrust  me  aside  until 
I  have  a  chance  to  remove  some  of  the  reproach  that 
rests  upon  me." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  sat  down  to 
hear  him,  but  she  would  not  look  at  him. 

"I  pray  that  you  will  understand,"  he  said,  "that 


In  the  Cliurcli. 


I  never  for  a  single  moment  loved  any  woman  but 
you.  I  am  actually  not  responsible  for  the  marriage 
I  told  you  of.  That  I  was  not  much  more  than  a 
child  when  it  occurred  is  not  excuse  enough.  I  was 
ensnared,  cajoled  and  intimidated.  The  woman  is 
coarse,  illiterate  and  much  older  than  I  am.  She 
never  really  attracted  me  for  a  moment,  but  in  an 
instant  of  blind  and  reckless  folly  I  was  made  to  seem 
to  ask  her  to  marry  me.  I  was  surrounded  by  men 
of  violence,  in  a  lawless  mining  settlement,  and  partly 
to  save  my  life,  partly  from  a  false  sense  of  honor, 
to  make  good  what  in  my  childish  ignorance  seemed 
to  me  my  word,  I  consented  to  have  a  ceremony  per- 
formed. The  next  day  I  fled  and  I  have  never  seen 
the  woman  since.  She  may  be  dead  for  aught  I 
know." 

Abby  looked  at  his  handsome  face,  pale  with  the 
violence  of  his  emotion,  and  she  felt  her  resolution 
becoming  weaker. 

"I  have  no  right,"  he  continued,  "to  involve  you  in 
the  consequences  of  my  weakness  and  my  misfortune. 
But  you  have  loved  me  and  I  know  you  can  pity  me 
and  withhold  your  scorn.  I  should  have  fled  away 
as  soon  as  I  saw  you.  The  first  word  I  spoke  to  you 
was  fatal  to  me.  I  forgot  everything  but  the  longing 
of  my  soul  for  you.  Even  now  I  would  rather  part 
with  my  life  than  give  you  up;  life  will  have  nothing 
for  me  when  I  am  forced  to  do  that.  But  I  will  do  it 
if  you  wish.  Yes,  I  will  do  it." 

"What  else  is  there  to  do?"  asked  Abby  with  a 
tremulous  voice. 

"Nothing  else,  if  that  woman  lives;  I  know  it,    But 


138  The  Quakeress. 

can  we  not,  when  we  part,  have  some  communication 
with  one  another,  so  that  if  she  shall  die — ?" 

"To  wish  for  the  death  of  another  person  is  mur- 
der !"  said  Abby. 

"Not  to  wish  for  it,"  he  said  piteously,  "but  to  wait 
for  it.  It  may  have  come  already.  I  will  make  in- 
quiry. I  will  at  once  try  to  discover  the  truth.  May 
I  not  remain  in  touch  with  you  until  then?" 

Abby  did  not  answer.  She  found  it  not  easy  to  re- 
concile her  strong  inclination  with  her  conviction  of 
duty.  Then  in  a  kind  of  desperation,  Clayton  said : 

"Shall  I  talk  to  Uncle  Ponder  about  it?  Per- 
haps he  may  be  able  to  perceive  what  is  just  the  right 
thing  to  do?" 

"No,"  said  Abby,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "Dr. 
Ponder  can  give  no  help.  It  is  perfectly  clear  to  me 
that  I  must  see  thee  no  more.  No  one  can  advise 
anything  else  and  be  right." 

Clayton  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  bent  his 
head  to  the  back  of  the  pew  before  him.  Abby  re- 
strained her  impulse  to  rise  and  leave  the  church. 
There  was  a  movement  in  her  soul  of  deep  pity  for 
this  unhappy  man. 

Then  Clayton  lifted  his  head  and  standing  up  with 
his  face  pallid  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  said : 

"I  will  go,  then!  This  accursed  life  of  mine  shall 
afflict  you  no  longer.  It  was  abominable  cruelty  for 
me  to  bring  the  horror  of  it  into  your  pure  and  sweet 
existence.  I  should  have  controlled  myself  better. 
But  my  punishment  is  heavier  than  my  sin  deserves. 
Here,  in  this  sacred  place,"  he  said  passionately,  lift- 
ing his  right  arm  and  looking  upward,  "I  protest 


In  the  Church.  139 

against  it !  I  call  God  to  witness  that  I  am  a  victim 
of  wrong,  and  no  deliberate  offender.  It  is  unjust 
that  I  should  have  such  ferocious  suffering  inflicted 
upon  me  for  such  an  offence.  Is  God  just?  Where 
is  his  justice?  Where  is  the  justice  that  would  tear 
my  heart  from  my  breast  because  of  a  sin  that  was 
almost  no  sin?" 

"Curse  God  and  die !"  The  words  flashed  through 
Clayton's  mind,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  should  like  to  ac- 
cept their  blasphemous  counsel;  but  he  refrained  and 
sank  into  his  seat.  Then,  leaping  to  his  feet,  he  said : 

"Come,  we  will  go  now,"  and  he  led  the  way  down 
the  aisle.  At  the  door  he  took  the  key  from  his  pocket 
and  put  it  in  the  lock.  Then  he  turned  to  Abby  and 
said: 

"It  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  your  face.  It  is  for- 
ever !  O  my  dear !  O  my  love  !  my  heart  is  broken !" 

Abby  put  her  hands  tightly  over  her  face,  and  tot- 
tered as  if  she  would  fall.  Clayton  sprang  to  her. 
He  thought  he  would  simply  keep  her  from  falling. 
When  he  touched  her  she  dropped  her  hands,  and  in 
an  instant  his  arms  were  about  her,  she  held  him 
fast  and  her  face  was  hidden  against  his  breast.  She 
clung  to  him,  all  her  good  resolutions  gone,  all  her 
convictions  and  purposes  flung  away  and  forgotten, 
and  while  he  kissed  her  over  and  over  again  she  spoke 
no  more  of  shame  or  of  parting,  but  said  to  him  while 
he  caressed  her  and  pressed  her  close  to  his  heart : 

"I  cannot  give  thee  up !    I  cannot !" 

But  moments  of  ecstasy  are  fleeting  and  when  Clay- 
ton turned  again  to  the  church  door  and  unlocked  it, 
Abby  felt  that  she  could  not,  as  she  was,  go  out  to 


140  Tke  Quakeress. 

face  the  unsentimental  life  of  Connock  and  the  people 
in  her  home. 

"Go  first,"  she  said  to  Clayton,  "and  I  will  stay  for 
a  while  in  the  church  to  compose  myself." 

Then  when  he  had  gone  she  turned  the  key  and 
entering  a  pew,  her  face  crimson  and  her  hair  disor- 
dered, she  fell  upon  the  cushioned  seat  with  her  heart 
beating  fast  and  her  brain  excited  almost  to  madness. 
Hardly  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  but  with 
fear  that  some  one  should  discover  her,  she  put  her 
hair  in  order.  Then  she  tried  to  steady  her  mind  that 
she  might  consider  her  situation.  She  found  that  she 
could  not  easily  do  this.  She  had  an  impulse  to  pray; 
but  then  suddenly  the  thought  swept  in  upon  her  and 
overwhelmed  her:  "to  love  the  husband  of  another 
woman  is  to  commit  crime.  I  am  a  criminal;"  and 
then  the  flush  upon  her  face  deepened  and  she 
thought  with  horror  of  the  hot  kisses  that  still  lin- 
gered upon  her  cheek,  kisses  that  belonged  to  the 
lawful  wife  who  had  been  deserted.  What  would  her 
mother  think,  if  she  could  know  what  had  happened? 
She  felt  that  she  could  hardly  find  courage  to  look 
into  her  mother's  eyes  again.  What  would  George 
Fotherly  think  ?  For  a  moment  George  in  his  saint- 
liness  seemed  lifted  up  far  above  the  faithless  husband 
who  had  just  left  her.  Then  her  passion  for  Clayton 
again  poured  in  upon  her  soul  and  she  almost  hated 
George  for  appearing  to  be  a  better  man  than  Clayton 
was.  Clayton  was  the  prey  of  evil-doers,  not  at  all 
himself  an  evil-doer,  and  George  was  better  because 
he  had  not  been  tempted;  or  because  no  subtle  wicked 
\roman  ever  laid  a  trap  for  him. 


"She  Fell   Upon  the  Cushioned  Scat." 


In  tKe  Cliurcn. 


Her  mind  reverted  then  to  the  worship  she  had 
with  George  in  the  garden,  but  a  few  weeks  ago.  It 
seemed  ages  ago.  She  had  grown  old  since  then. 
She  seemed  to  have  been  living  amid  storm  and  tem- 
pest all  the  intervening  time,  and  while  the  peace  and 
the  quiet  of  that  old  life  looked  lovely  to  her  as  she 
glanced  back  upon  it,  she  said  to  herself  that  in  truth 
it  was  empty  and  worthless  because  she  did  not  love 
Clayton  then.  She  would  rather  have  tumult  and  suf- 
fering with  the  love  than  to  possess  peace  without  it. 
Looking  forward,  she  saw  that  this  passion  was  so 
fierce  and  so  imperious  that  she  might  find  herself 
driven  by  it  far  from  everything  she  had  been  used 
to  reverence,  and  she  shuddered  and  clenched  her 
hands  upon  her  lap  as  this  vision  of  evil  rose  before 
her  mind. 

She  remembered  how  she  prayed  that  day  in  the 
garden  with  George,  and  now  she  had  wandered  so 
far  away  from  the  right  that  she  dared  not  pray.  That 
seemed  horrible,  too.  What  was  to  be  the  destiny  of 
a  girl  who  could  not  ask  God  to  help  her  and  to  bless 
her  and  save  her? 

Those  angels  there  in  the  window  were  happy  and 
smiling.  She  gazed  at  them  until  they  appeared  to 
be  almost  real  personages.  They  smiled  because  their 
hearts  were  pure,  and  all  heaven  is  pure,  but  heaven 
is  not  for  the  woman  whose  face  has  been  stained  by 
the  kisses  of  another  woman's  husband.  It  would  be 
well  for  her,  she  thought,  if  she  had  been  called  there 
weeks  ago;  "but  then  I  should  not  have  known  Clay- 
ton," she  said;  and  when  she  looked  at  her  heart  she 
saw  that  she  had  no  desire  for  heaven  without  him. 


142  The  Quakeress. 

It  was  such  a  heavy  burden,  all  this  sorrow  and 
distraction,  for  the  poor  little  soul  that  had  never  be- 
fore borne  a  burden  of  any  kind.  Disappointed  love, 
she  felt,  would  have  been  hard  enough  to  bear,  but 
love  requited  and  then  in  all  its  fruitions  made  impos- 
sible, was  too  terrible;  and  yet  even  this  load  of  misery 
must  be  made  heavier  by  the  fact  that  the  love  was 
tainted  by  crime.  She  tried  again  to  look  down  the 
years  to  come  and  she  could  see  nothing  but  long, 
dreadful  waiting  for  an  event  that  it  were  murderous 
to  hope  for,  and  which  might  be  postponed  until  she 
herself  was  gone. 

Abby  sat  long  in  the  church,  how  long  she  did  not 
know,  and  while  her  pulse  grew  quieter  and  the  flush 
passed  from  her  face,  her  mind  lost  none  of  its  dis- 
quiet. She  had  just  resolved  to  leave  the  building 
and  to  go  home,  when  she  was  startled  to  hear  voices 
in  the  vestry-room  near  to  the  chancel.  She  rose  to 
creep  down  the  aisle  to  the  door,  but  fear  came  upon 
her  that  she  should  be  seen,  so  she  hicl  herself  behind 
the  pillar  and  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Ponder  came  into 
the  church  with  Dolly. 

Mrs.  Ponder  always  prepared  for  Sunday  by  finding 
the  lessons  in  the  Bible  for  her  husband,  fixing  the 
numbers  of  the  hymns  on  the  bulletin  board  and  ar- 
ranging in  an  orderly  manner  all  the  things  upon 
the  communion  table  and  in  the  chancel. 

"Dolly,"  she  said,  "look  in  the  index  of  the  hymnal 
and  find  the  number  of  the  hymn,  'I  was  a  wandering 
sheep';  that's  a  good  girl!  I  never  could  find  any- 
thing alphabetically.  I  can't  remember  if  I  comes 
before  M  or  after  P.  Then  please  get  the  step-lad- 
der and  fix  the  numbers  of  all  the  hymns  for  me." 


In  the  Church. 


143 


While  Dolly  turned  the  leaves  of  the  hymnal  Mrs. 
Ponder  said: 

"It  was  really  very  odd  for  Clayton  to  leave  us  so 
suddenly.  Do  you  think,  dear — ?"  Mrs.  Ponder 
hesitated  to  express  her  own  thought. 

"He  seemed  a  good  deal  agitated,  and  he  gave 
me  a  note  for  Abby,"  answered  Dolly. 

"Something  was  the  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder. 
"Abby  could  hardly  have  refused  him,  do  you  imag- 
ine ?" 

"It  doesn't  seem  quite  possible.  He  has  known 
her  but  a  few  days;  but  Southern  men  are  ardent 
lovers  and  I  saw  he  was  dead  in  love  with  her.  I 
thought  she  fancied  him." 

"These  tranquil  Quaker  people  are  skilful  at  hid- 
ing their  real  feelings,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"Yes,"  answered  Dolly,  "and  demure  girls  like 
Abby  are  very  deceiving.  You  can't  tell  what  fire 
they  have  down  inside  of  them." 

"She  is  just  a  darling  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder, 
"whether  she  loves  him  or  not." 

"Perfectly  lovely !"   answered   Dolly. 

"Nothing  would  please  Uncle  or  me  more  than 
for  Clayton  to  marry  her.  It  would  bring  her  right 
into  the  church.  I  was  so  afraid  she  would  marry 
George  Fotherly  and  stay  with  the  Quakers." 

Dolly  laughed :  "The  idea,  auntie !  of  Clayton 
bringing  anybody  into  the  church !  He  wouldn't 
have  the  least  influence  over  her  in  that  direction. 
It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  he  should  go  off  and  enlist 
in  the  Confederate  army." 

Mrs.  Ponder  was  turning  the  leaves  of  the  great 


J44  The  Quakeress. 

Bible  on  the  reading  desk  to  find  a  lesson  in  Second 
Samuel.  Her  mind  for  a  moment  was  diverted  from 
the  subject  of  her  conversation  with  Dolly. 

"Dolly,"  she  said. 

"What,  auntie?" 

"Do  you  suppose  the  Hebrews  in  the  old  time  used 
affectionate  abbreviations  of  names  just  as  we  do?" 

"To  what  do  you  refer?" 

"It  seems  strange,  doesn't  it,  dear,  to  think  of 
David's  elder  brothers  calling  him  'Dave/  and  of  old 
Eli  calling  Samuel  'Sammy/  but  quite  likely  they  did 
so." 

"I  believe  Mr.  Fotherly  would  be  awfully  cut  up  if 
Abby  should  fancy  Clayton,"  said  Dolly,  with 
stronger  interest  in  the  men  of  the  present  time 
than  in  those  of  the  past.  "I  know  he  loves  her." 

"I  have  thought  he  might  be  a  good  match  for 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder,  withdrawing  to  the  inner 
chancel  to  arrange  the  table. 

Dolly  laughed :  "I  will  never  marry  a  preacher. 
He  is  too  cold  for  me,  anyhow." 

"I  don't  know,"  responded  Mrs.  Ponder.  "There 
are  some  advantages  in  having  a  preacher  for  a  hus- 
band. You  can  quote  his  sermons  at  him  and  com- 
pel him  to  live  up  to  them.  But  George  is  a  farmer 
more  than  a  preacher,  and  he  is  not  poor,  like  most 
of  the  members  of  the  apostolic  ministry.  Nobody 
will  ever  steal  our  diamonds  or  rob  our  bank;  but 
these  things  are  not  to  be  despised,  Dolly.  George 
Fotherly  is  rich." 

"I  shouldn't  fancy  a  saint  for  a  husband;  not  even 
a  rich  saint." 


In  the  Church.  145 

"Dolly!  it  is  shocking  to  hear  you  speak  in  that 
manner.  But  I  fear  you  could  never  influence 
George  towards  the  church  even  if  you  should  marry 
him.  You  have  too  much  levity  and  he  is  too  much 
set  in  his  opinions.  But  Abby!  I  am  perfectly  sure 
that  if  your  uncle  could  once  fairly  get  at  her  mind 
he  would  bring  her  over.  He  is  irresistible  with 
sane  and  reasonable  Quakers.  He  converted  seven 
in  his  first  parish." 

Mrs.  Ponder  and  Dolly  withdrew  to  the  vestry- 
room  for  a  moment  for  some  purpose,  and  Abby, 
darting  from  behind  the  pillar,  her  cheeks  aflame 
again  and  with  a  sense  of  shame  upon  her  as  if  she 
had  been  an  eavesdropper,  hurried  down  the  aisle, 
through  the  vestibule  and  out  through  the  great 
door,  which  she  left  open. 

She  went  home  and  hid  herself  in  her  room;  and 
with  her  was  one  thought:  Clayton  had  gone!  She 
felt  half  glad  and  half  sorry.  It  was  brave  and  right 
for  him  to  go  away  and  yet  she  had  a  rebellious  feel- 
ing that  he  was  deserting  her  in  the  bitterest  hour 
of  her  trouble.  She  was  eager  to  receive  the  note 
he  had  written  her,  and  when  it  came  she  locked 
the  door  of  her  room  while  she  read  it.  It  was  as 
follows : 

"My  Dear  Abby, 

It  is  better  that  I  leave  you  for  the  present.  I 
cannot  help  loving  you  dearly  wherever  I  am  and 
I  do  not  fear  you  will  cease  to  love  me  until  I  shall 
be  free  and  shall  have  a  right  to  claim  you  for  my 
own.  We  shall  wait;  if  not  with  patience,  then  with 


146  The  Quakeress. 

hopefulness.  '  Every  moment  I  shall  have  you  in  my 
mind  and  sometimes  I  will  write  to  you,  if  I  may. 
Will  you  give  me  permission  to  do  so?" 

Abby  kissed  the  letter  and  thrust  it  into  the  'bosom 
of  her  dress.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  would  con- 
sider the  request  that  he  might  write  to  her,  but 
away  down  in  her  inner  self  she  knew  that  she  would 
permit  him  to  write  and  would  find  happiness  in 
reading  his  letters. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
George  Fotherly  Tries  His  Fate. 

ABBY  was  not  used  to  concealment,  and  the  de- 
jection which  came  to  her  as  a  result  of  Clayton's 
revelation  was  so  sharply  contrasted  with  her  usual 
blithe  and  pleasant  manner  that  her  mother  surely 
would  have  questioned  her  respecting  the  cause  of 
it  had  not  there  been  another  plainly  evident  reason 
for  the  girl's  despondency. 

The  condition  of  Isaac  Woolford's  affairs  became 
worse  instead  of  better  as  the  certainty  appeared 
that  the  war  would  not  be  quickly  ended;  and  Isaac 
talked  of  his  troubles  freely  to  his  wife  and  his 
daughter.  Thus  Rachel,  with  her  own  spirits  de- 
pressed by  the  trials  of  her  husband,  had  no  reason 
for  suspecting  that  Abby's  sorrowfulness  was  due 
to  any  other  cause.  To  the  girl  it  would  have  been 
grief  enough  that  trouble  had  come  to  them  through 
the  entanglements  of  her  father's  business,  but  that 
she  should  carry  the  additional  weight  of  misery 
that  must  be  completely  hidden  was  almost  beyond 
her  strength.  It  seemed  to  her  horribly  selfish  that 
she  should  have  to  think  of  her  own  suffering  at  a 
time  when  her  father  needed  all  the  sympathy  his 
loved  ones  could  give  him;  but  she  felt  indeed  that 
she  had  hardly  any  control  over  the  circumstances 
that  had  brought  affliction  to  her  heart.  She  had 
not  plotted  to  love  Clayton;  nor  had  she  known  that 

d47) 


148  Tke  Quakeress. 

love  for  him  was  hopeless.  She  had  a  dull  feeling 
that  some  monstrous  ill  fate  or  evil  destiny  was 
making  her  the  victim  of  its  malevolence. 

Isaac  Woolford  was  master  of  the  art  of  smelting 
iron-ore.  At  a  time  when  that  business  was  not 
usually  done  upon  a  basis  of  exact  science,  Isaac  had 
learned  enough  of  the  inner  mysteries  of  the  art 
to  enable  him  to  employ  precision  in  his  operations, 
and  precision  meant  economical  production  and 
good  iron.  But  a  skilled  manufacturer  must  sell 
his  wares,  and  unless  he  be  wise  in  the  ways  of  com- 
merce he  may  not  reach  success.  Isaac  Woolford 
had  little  of  this  wisdom.  He  was  half  of  a  pretty 
large  man,  but  to  be  half  of  a  large  man  may  not  be 
so  profitable  as  to  be  wholly  a  small  man  unless  a 
partner  can  be  found  who  has  the  qualities  that  are 
lacking,  and  Isaac  had  no  partner. 

Thus  his  life  had  been  spent  in  the  conduct  of  a 
business  which  sometimes  made  headway  for  a  brief 
period  and  then,  because  of  his  want  of  foresight  or 
of  sound  judgment  or  of  accurate  calculation,  lost 
all  that  it  had  gained.  More  than  once  the  promise 
was  good  that  he  would  be  made  rich,  but  always 
some  unforeseen  event  appeared  to  overthrow  his 
hopes  and  to  entangle  him  in  deeper  perplexity  and 
more  distressing  embarrassment.  For  many  years 
his  office  by  the  furnace  had  been  the  scene  of  a 
strong  effort  to  keep  his  business  running  and  to 
avert  bankruptcy.  He  tried  not  to  go  into  debt. 
He  was  truly  scrupulous  to  avoid  buying  when  he 
might  not  be  able  to  pay.  But  circumstances  some- 
times were  desperate.  Money  for  wages  must  be 


George  Tries  His  Fate. 


149 


had,  coal  must  be  purchased,  ore  and  limestone  must 
be  procured  and  a  growing  interest-account  must 
be  cared  for  unless  the  furnace  were  to  be  blown  out 
and  his  career  as  an  iron-maker  ended. 

The  banks  had  long  felt  uncomfortable  about  his 
notes;  many  of  his  friends  were  chilly  when  borrow- 
ing was  proposed;  and  now,  when  the  price  of  iron 
was  booming  upward  and  all  his  costs  for  labor  and 
material  were  increasing,  he  found  himself  barred 
from  the  best  favor  of  the  market  by  the  contract 
which  required  him  still  to  sell  his  iron  at  the  low 
prices  of  the  peace  period.  He  stood  by  his  con- 
tract manfully  and  without  complaining,  but  he 
could  not  help  sometimes  having  a  feeling  of  bitter- 
ness when  he  figured  that,  but  for  it,  the  soaring 
values  would  have  permitted  him,  almost  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  to  stand  firmly  upon  his  feet 
again,  nearly  free  from  the  hideous  slavery  of  debt. 

He  felt  at  times  like  a  beaten  man.  To  him  who 
has  for  long  years  eagerly  striven  for  success  and 
has  always  just  missed  it,  there  comes  at  last  a  sense 
of  bewilderment  and  fatigue.  The  struggle  seems 
useless  and  hopeless.  He  loses  faith  in  himself.  He 
learns  to  fear  that  he  has  permitted  his  self-esteem 
to  overestimate  his  powers.  When  his  conclusions 
respecting  business  policy  appear  to  be  impregnably 
sound,  he  still  distrusts  them.  Where,  in  his  earlier 
life,  he  used  to  feel  certain,  he  now  has  doubts.  He 
is  half  inclined  to  believe  that  for  him  the  safe  way 
is  to  put  judgment  aside  and  to  make  bold  reckless 
dashes  at  the  end  he  wishes  to  reach,  with  the  possi- 
bility that  chance  may  help  him. 


The  Quakeress. 


He  is  impressed  more  and  more  by  the  belief  that 
there  is  a  mysterious  element  in  the  qualities  that 
produce  victory,  an  element  that  he  cannot  clearly 
perceive  or  get  \vithin  his  grasp.  Other  men  who 
have  swept  past  him  to  triumphant  issues  must  know 
a  secret  that  has  been  withheld  from  him.  He  is 
puzzled,  baffled,  faint-hearted,  discouraged,  tired. 
If  he  has  ignored  religion  he  may  find  strong  the 
temptation  to  dishonesty,  or  he  may  at  the  worst 
have  an  impulse  to  quit  the  fretful,  wearisome,  al- 
most loathsome  struggle  by  the  horror  of  self-de- 
struction. If  he  have  hold  of  spiritual  things,  as 
Isaac  Woolford  had,  he  may  find  solace  in  the  belief 
that  Providence  has  kept  him  at  school  wherein  the 
mighty  virtue  of  humility  may  best  be  learned;  he 
may  perceive  without  the  aid  of  the  spoken  word 
that  earthly  things  are  indeed  vanity;  he  may  bow 
his  head  amid  his  shattered  hopes,  his  wasted  for- 
tunes, and  his  daily  and  hourly  wrestlings  with  in- 
vinpible  difficulty,  and  worship  the  Power  that  has 
made  the  discipline  of  sorrow  the  best  preparation 
for  admission  to  the  celestial  places. 

The  necessity  was  upon  Isaac  to  obtain  some  more 
money.  The  banks  would  not  lend  to  him.  They 
would  have  required  the  best  endorsement  upon  his 
paper  if  money-conditions  had  been  ordinary;  but 
now,  with  the  country  entering  upon  a  war  of  un- 
known proportions;  with  gold  going  up;  with  cur- 
rency of  all  kinds  scarce;  with  apprehension  in  every 
mind,  and  with  half-panic  fear  in  all  the  marts  of 
commerce,  Isaac  could  hardly  obtain  an  endorser, 
and  the  banks  would  have  been  reluctant  to  discount 


George  Tries  His  Fate.        151 

his  notes  no  matter  by  whom  they  should  be  guar- 
anteed. 

Isaac  had  borrowed  upon  mortgage  until  all  the 
property  he  owned  was  bonded.  The  grey  house  in 
which  he  lived  belonged  to  his  wife.  He  had  given 
it  to  her  when  he  married  her  that  she  might  be 
provided  for  against  the  day  of  disaster;  and  now 
that  disaster  impended,  he  shrank  from  taking  it  from 
her  and  tossing  it  into  the  ravenous  maw  that  had 
swallowed  everything  else.  The  proof  however  was 
plain  that  the  sacrifice  must  be  made  or  else  he 
must  abandon  the  struggle,  surrender  the  furnace 
and  his  business  and  turn  to  some  other  method  of 
earning  bread.  His  wife  was  willing  he  should  bond 
the  house,  but  her  husband's  incapacity  had  long 
been  so  evident  to  her  that  she  had  no  doubt  of 
the  meaning  of  a  new  mortgage:  when  the  furnace 
and  the  ore-beds  and  the  farm-tracts  were  gone  the 
home  would  go,  and  he  and  she  at  the  beginning 
of  old  age  would  be  nearer  to  outright  destitution 
than  when  they  began  life  together.  She  saw  the 
whole  truth  and  she  faced  it  bravely;  she  would  not 
give  a  single  pang  more  to  Isaac  by  seeming  to 
desire  to  withhold  her  property  from  him  or  by  shut- 
ting the  only  door  through  which  he  could  catch  a 
gleam  of  hope. 

-"The  five  thousand  dollars  I  can  get  from  mort- 
gaging the  house  will  permit  me  to  complete  the 
contract  for  pig-iron  that  is  crushing  me,  and  leave 
something  over.  I  am  almost  sure,  Rachel,  that 
then  I  can  get  a  share  of  the  profitable  business." 

"Thee  is  more  than  welcome  to  the  house,  Isaac," 


The  Quakeress. 


she  said.  "Thee  knows  about  thy  affairs.  I  must 
trust  thee,  and  trust  God.  I  will  not  obstruct  thy 
plans.  If  we  lose  our  home,  we  shall  not  lose  our 
love  for  each  other  or  our  trust  in  Him.  Of  whom 
will  thee  borrow  the  money?" 

Isaac  did  not  at  once  answer.  He  was  half- 
ashamed  to  mention  again  the  name  of  the  man  to 
whom  he  had  so  often  gone  for  help.  Then  he  said  : 

"Of  George." 

"He  is  very  kind  to  thee." 

"Yes."  said  Isaac.  "I  owe  him  more  than  money. 
Although,  to  be  sure,  he  has  ample  security  for  all 
that  he  has  lent  me." 

"He  has  not  always  considered  that,  I  am  sure," 
said  Rachel. 

"Perhaps  not,  but  he  must  know  he  can  lose  noth- 
ing; and  then,  I  suppose  —  " 

"Thee  supposes  what,  Isaac?"  asked  his  wife,  when 
he  left  the  sentence  incomplete,  and  turned  his  head 
to  look  through  the  open  window  of  the  living  room. 

"Well,  dear,  thee  knows  we  have  long  expected  — 
or,  rather,  we  have  long  hoped,  that  —  that  perhaps 
George  and  Abby  might  —  " 

"He  is  a  sluggish  wooer,"  said  Rachel. 

"Because  he  takes  for  granted  Abby  will  accept 
him.  They  have  grown  up  together." 

"I  cannot  tell  whether  she  will  or  not,"  said 
Rachel.  "She  seems  to  care  for  him." 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  said  Isaac,  confi- 
dently, "and  so,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  with 
us,  our  son-in-law  will  have  our  property.  I  have 
had  no  little  comfort  from  that  reflection.  I  wish  he 


George  Tries  His  Fate. 


153 


would  settle  the  matter  with  Abby.  Has  thee  ever 
spoken  to  her  about  it?" 

"No;  I  should  very  much  dislike  to  do  that." 

"I  think  I  shall  do  it,"  said  Isaac,  "and  I  will  try 
to  see  George  at  once  about  the  mortgage." 

That  evening,  Rachel  being  within,  Isaac,  sitting 
upon  the  porch  in  the  twilight  with  Abby,  moved 
his  chair  beside  hers  and  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"Thee  has  always  been  a  great  comfort  to  me, 
Abigail,"  he  said.  "Thy  conduct  has  been  becoming 
to  thy  membership  with  Friends,  and  thee  has  done 
much  to  make  the  atmosphere  of  our  home  one  of 
peace  and  love." 

"Thank  thee,  dear  father." 

"In  all  my  troubles  thee  and  thy  dear  mother  have 
made  the  home  a  refuge  for  me.  Thee  has  blessed 
me  by  thy  sweet  and  modest  behavior  to  others  and 
by  thy  loving  obedience  to  and  tender  sympathy  for 
thy  parents.  I  could  wish  for  no  improvement  in  thy 
demeanor.  Thee  has  fulfilled  all  my  best  hopes  for 
thee." 

There  was  a  little  pang  in  Abby's  heart  as  she 
thought  that  these  words  could  not  have  been 
spoken  had  her  father  known  of  the  relation  into 
which  she  had  come  with  Clayton  Harley;  but  she 
answered : 

"Thee  and  mother  have  put  a  debt  of  love  and 
devotion  upon  me  that  I  can  never  repay." 

"Thy  happiness  has  always  been  our  great  con- 
cern; and  will  always  be.  When  thee  shall  find  a 
good  husband,  we  shall  rejoice  with  thee  that  thy 
cup  of  happiness  is  full." 

Abby  did  not  respond. 


154  The  Quakeress. 

"Mother  and  I,"  continued  Isaac,  "have  thought 
for  a  long  time  that  George  cared  for  thee,  and  that 
would  give  us  great  pleasure.  He  has  been  with 
thee  much  and  has  seemed  to  prefer  thee  to  others, 
but—" 

"He  is  just  my  friend,"  said  Abby,  interrupting 
him.  She  dreaded  the  question  her  father  seemed 
to  intend. 

"I  thought  perhaps  he  might  have  said  a  word  to 
thee — or  in  some  way  indicated  to  thee  what  his  feel- 
ing for  thee  is." 

"No,  father,  he  has  not." 

It  was  upon  Isaac's  mind  to  tell  her  of  his  money- 
obligations  to  George  and  of  the  proposal  that  he 
should  take  a  mortgage  upon  the  grey  house;  but 
upon  reflection  he  shrank  from  applying  a  merce- 
nary impulse  to  the  girl's  mind;  so  he  ended  the  con- 
versation thus: 

"I  would  not  pry  into  thy  feelings,  Abigail,  dear, 
but  I  am  confident  that  thee  will  perceive,  when  he 
shall  speak  to  thee,  that  he  is  an  exceptional  man  and 
fit  to  be  the  husband  even  of  so  dear  a  girl  as  thee." 

In  response  to  a  request  from  Isaac  that  George 
would  come  to  see  him  within  a  day  or  two.  the 
farmer  drove  over  to  Connock  the  next  evening, 
before  darkness  had  fallen,  and  when  he  reached  the 
grey  house,  Abby  sat  alone  upon  the  front-porch, 
behind  the  clematis  vine.  Isaac  and  Rachel  had 
driven  to  Plymouth  to  make  a  call. 

George  believed  himself  fortunate  that  he  found 
Abby  thus  alone.  He  had  been  brooding  over  the 


George  Tries  His  Fate.        155 

thought  that  he  saw  in  the  woods  on  the  picnic  day 
that  which  looked  as  if  Clayton  Harley  were  finding 
favor  with  Abby.     He  had  gone  home  blaming  him- 
self for  his  confidence  in  the  belief,  for  which  there 
was  no  warrant  in  anything  but  Abby's  friendly  treat- 
ment of  him  that  she  would  consent  to  be  his  wife 
whenever  he  should  ask  her.     He  had  rested  upon 
that  confidence,  and  put  off  again  and  again  the  obli- 
gation he  had  to  speak  to  her.     No  other  suitor  had 
been  in  sight;  their  close  relations  had  been  continued 
so  many  years  without  interruption;  she  seemed  to 
consent  to  his  suit  by  favoring  him  with  her  com- 
panionship; she  was  the  kind  of  woman,  he  thought, 
who  could  never  marry  any  one  but  a  Friend,  and 
he  was  the  only  available  Friend  that  came  near  to 
her;   and   so  he  had  taken   for   granted   that  which 
should  have  had  demonstration,  and  now  he  thought 
of  himself  as  foolish  in  not  having  obtained  the  word 
of  consent  which  he  believed  would  be  given  to  him. 
The  fear  of  Clayton's  rivalry  was  in  his  soul;  but 
it  was  not  strong  enough  to  overbear  the  assurance 
he  had  carried  with  him  for  years  that  Abby's  destiny 
was  to  become  his  wife.     And  so,  when  he  greeted 
her  upon  the  porch  this  night,  with  his  mind  made 
up  that  the  matter  should  be  ended  now,  he  permit- 
ted himself  to  have  no  doubt  of  her  answer  to  his 
question. 

When  they  had  sat  together  for  a  little  while,  as 
the  ruddy  glow  in  the  western  sky  faded  into  dull 
grey,  he  proposed  that  they  should  walk  around  into 
the  garden,  and  presently  they  sat  again  in  the  old 
familiar  place,  upon  the  rustic-bench  beneath  the 
apple  tree. 


Tke  Quakeress. 


Knowing  that  Abby's  parents  might  at  any  mo- 
ment return,  George  would  lose  no  time  in  speaking 
to  her  of  that  of  which  his  heart  was  full. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  upon  her  lap  and 
with  thoughts  of  Clayton  coming  now  and  then  into 
her  mind.  He  half-turned  towards  her,  and  with  one 
arm  resting  upon  the  back  of  the  bench,  he  said : 

"Does  thee  remember,  Abby,  long,  long  ago,  on  a 
First-day  morning  after  meeting,  when  I  was  a  big 
boy  and  thee  was  just  a  dear  little  girl,  how  I  went 
and  plucked  a  bunch  of  buttercups  over  by  the  South 
wall  of  the  meeting-house  yard,  and  gave  them  to 
thee?  And  does  thee  remember  how  thee  blushed 
all  over  thy  sweet  face  and  put  up  thy  lips  to  kiss  me ; 
and  how  Friend  Armbruster  came  to  thee  when  thee 
would  pin  the  posy  to  thy  frock  and  said  thee  must 
not,  and  how  I  said  thee  must,  and  withstood  her 
and  had  thee  pin  it  there?  Does  thee  remember  all 
that,  Abby?" 

"Yes,"  said  Abby,  "I  remember  it  very  well  indeed. 
And  I  took  the  flowers  home  and  pressed  them  in  a 
book,  and,  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  I  have  them 
yet." 

"I  have  known  thee  many  years,  as  a  child,  as  a 
lass  and  then  as  a  woman,  and  thee  has  seemed  some- 
how to  be  very  near  to  me  and  very  important  to 
me;  but  now  at  times  when  I  think  of  thee,  big  as 
I  am,  I  am  half  afraid  of  thee." 

"O  George!  How  strange  for  thee  to  say  such  a 
thing!" 

"For  Abby  the  child  and  for  Abby  the  lass,  the 
boy  was  an  equal,  a  comrade,  a  playmate;  but  now 


George  Tries  His  Fate.        157 

there  is  something  about  thee — the  sacredness  of  thy 
womanhood,  I  suppose — that  fills  me  with  a  kind  of 
awe  as  I  consider  thee.'' 

"Perhaps  I  feel  somewhat  so  of  thee,  George.  Thee 
is  so  big  and  strong  and  sure,  beside  my  littleness  and 
feebleness ;  and  when  I  hear  thee  preach  I  am  sure 
thee  has  left  me  far  behind  in  spiritual  things.  I  have 
not  the  Inner  Light,  George,  as  thee  has  it;  perhaps 
I  am  too  much  a  sinner." 

"It  shines  all  about  thee,  Abby.  Thee  has  but  to 
open  the  doors  of  thy  soul  and  it  will  fill  thee  with 
peace  I  do  not  think  of  thee  when  I  am  moved  to 
speak  in  meeting,  but  I  do  believe  there  is  in  my  mind 
a  sense  of  thy  presence  and  that  it  helps  me." 

"I  hear  thee  with  wonder  sometimes;  and  I  know 
that  thee  speaks  not  with  thine  own  power.  But  if 
the  Spirit  speak  through  thee  what  am  I,  forlorn  and 
sinful  that  thee  should  gain  anything  from  me?" 

"I  will  tell  thee  how  it  is,  Abby.  The  Divine  Love 
that  implies  me  to  preach  urges  me  to  cherish  thee. 
It  has  many  forms,  and  one  form  is  that  which  makes 
thee  seem  precious  to  me  above  every  other  earthly 
thing." 

Abby  had  seen  whither  he  led  the  talk,  and  now 
she  began  to  dread  that  he  should  continue  it. 

"Did  thee  say,"  asked  George,  "that  thee  had  kept 
the  little  bunch  of  flowers  I  gave  thee  long  ago?  The 
memory  must  be  pleasant  to  thee  then." 

"Yes,  George." 

"When  I  gave  it  to  thee,  though  I  was  but  a  boy, 
and  thee  a  child,  I  loved  thee,  Abby." 

"I  knew  it,  George." 


The  Quakeress. 


"And  did  thee  know  I  had  loved  thee  every  day — 
yea,  truly  every  day,  and  every  hour  since  that  time  ?" 

"I  thought  so." 

"I  love  thee  now,  dear  Abby,  far,  far  more  than  I 
have  ever  done!  Thee  is  with  me  in  my  thought  al- 
ways. When  J  wake  in  the  morning  I  think  first  of 
our  Father  and  then  that  he  has  been  very  gracious 
in  teaching  me  to  love  thee.  I  carry  thee  with  me 
into  my  toil  and  my  perplexities;  into  my  reading 
and  my  meditation.  Thee  goes  with  me  into  the 
harvest-field  and  into  the  market-place.  I  sit  alone 
upon  my  porch  and  look  out  over  the  hills  and  the 
river  and  thee  is  there.  When  the  dusk  comes  about 
me  and  I  can  see  only  the  lights  flashing  in  the  valley 
and  the  shining  stars  above  me,  I  am  not  lonely  if  I 
have  the  vision  of  thy  dear  face  before  me.  I  have 
thee  in  my  prayers,  for  always  I  pray  for  thee  that 
thee  may  forever  have  sweetness  and  holiness  in  thy 
life  and  that  thee  may  give  thy  love  to  me.  Has  God 
answered  that  prayer,  Abby?  Does  thee  indeed  love 
me  as  I  love  thee?" 

The  tears  were  trickling  upon  her  face.  She 
feared  to  speak.  What  should  she  say  ?  She  could  not 
bear  with  a  word  to  blast  this  man's  hope  and  to  rob 
him  of  the  desire  of  his  whole  life.  He  seemed  so 
high  and  beautiful  to  her,  too;  and  for  an  instant 
Clayton  was  mean  beside  him. 

"Thee  does  not  answer  me,"  said  George,  when 
she  hesitated  to  reply.  "Surely  thee  knows  thy  mind, 
for  thee  says  my  love  was  not  hidden  from  thee." 

"It  is  hard  for  me  to  find  just  the  right  word  to 
say  to  thee,"  she  said.  "Thee  has  not  spoken  to  me 
before,  and  I  did  not  look  for  thee  to  speak  to  me  in 


George  Tries  His  Fate.        J59 

this  way  now,  and  thus  I  am  unprepared.  Indeed, 
I  am  in  sore  difficulty  and  perplexity  and  I  know  not 
what  to  do." 

"Thee  would  have  no  difficulty,  would  thee,  if  thee 
loved  me  truly  and  thy  soul  answered  to  mine?  Thy 
hesitation  fills  me  with  fear." 

"It  must  not  be  so,"  she  said,  and  then  turning  her 
face  to  his  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  speak- 
ing tenderly,  she  continued :  "Thee  is  my  old  and 
very,  very  dear  friend.  Thee  seems  somehow  a  part 
of  my  life,  and  if  thee  should  scorn  me  or  turn  from 
me  I  should  have  bitter  pain.  I  could  not  give  up 
thy  friendship.  But,  dear  George,  when  thee  de- 
mands my  love  thee  asks  something  I  cannot  quite 
control.  I  am  not  sure.  Must  it  be  settled  now?" 

"If  thee  is  not  sure,  then  I  dread  that  thee  does 
not  love  me;  and  if  thee  does  not  love  me  now,  how 
can  I  hope  that  thee  ever  will?  O  my  precious  Abby! 
I  did  not  conceive  that  this  was  possible.  I  thought 
thee  safely  mine  always  and  there  was  no  future  for 
me  in  my  plan  of  life  but  thee  was  with  me  as  my 
darling  wife." 

"I  am  not  worthy  to  be  thy  wife,  George." 

"Do  not  speak  so  of  thyself,  Abby.  It  angers  me, 
and  thee  must  remember  that  truth  is  too  sacred  even 
for  humility  to  trespass  upon  it.  Thee  is  more  than 
worthy,  and  if  thee  could  love  me  and  give  thyself 
to  me,  I  would  surrender  all  my  life  to  thee  and  give 
thee  happiness.  Thee  cannot  guess  what  I  would  be 
willing  to  suffer  for  thy  sake.  When  I  think  of  thee 
it  seems  as  if  I  could  not  be  content  until  I  have 
shown  thee  the  greatness  of  my  love  by  enduring 


160  Tke  Quakeress. 

some  great  pain  for  thee.  How  shall  I  do  that? 
Must  it  be  that  I  can  prove  my  love  only  by  patience 
under  the  fierce  anguish  of  losing  thee?  The  bitter- 
ness of  death  would  be  in  that,  but  I  will  do  it  for  thee 
dearest,  if  thee  cannot  find  peace  with  me." 

Again  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  tried 
to  frame  her  white  face  into  a  smile.  Her  smile 
faded  instantly  when  she  looked  at  his  face  clouded 
with  disappointment. 

"Dear  George,"  she  said,  "thee  does  high  honor  to 
me  by  giving  to  me  a  love  so  noble.  I  believe  thee 
fully.  Thee  is  capable  of  complete  self-renunciation, 
but  I  should  have  much  sorrow  if  I  caused  thee  pain. 
I  wish — indeed,  indeed  I  wish — that  I  could  love 
thee  as  thee  loves  me,  but  George,  I  cannot.  At 
least  I  cannot  now.  Can  we  not  wait  ?  Who  can  tell 
what  the  future  may  have  for  thee  and  for  me  ?" 

"And  meanwhile?  What  shall  I  do  if  I  cannot  be 
with  thee  in  the  old  way?  If  I  cannot  have  joy  in 
thy  company?  Could  thee  bear  to  go  Avith  me  to 
meeting  and  elsewhere,  with  matters  as  they  are?" 

"Yes,  thee  must  not  forsake  me.  I  need  thy  help, 
thy  kind  words,  thy  strong  example.  Stay  by  me 
and  let  me  find  comfort  in  thy  dear  friendship,  and 
now  that  I  know  thy  heart  more  fully,  perhaps  out 
of  all  this  perplexity  there  may  come  some  vision  of 
the  right  way.  Perhaps  thee  may  find  thy  feelings 
for  me  change." 

"Never!"  said  George. 

The  fear  grew  upon  him,  as  she  gently  thrust  his 
love  away  from  her,  that  he  had  guessed  truly  when 
he  saw  her  walking  with  Clayton  upon  the  forest- 


George  Tries  His  Fate.        ^i 

road.  Clayton's  name  came  to  his  lips  and  almost  to 
his  utterance  now  that  he  could  find  no  other  explan- 
ation for  Abby's  repulsion  of  him  than  that  the 
stranger  had  won  her  heart.  But  he  restrained  him- 
self. He  could  not  find  courage  to  demand  that  she 
should  surrender  even  to  him  a  confidence  so  sacred. 
He  was  oppressed,  however,  by  the  thought  that  if 
indeed  the  girl  loved  Clayton  Harley,  all  this  talk 
about  friendship  and  fellowship  between  her  and 
George  Fotherly  was  but  an  attempt  to  screen  the 
truth  from  him  and  to  soothe  him  and  allay  his  sus- 
picions until  secrecy  should  be  no  longer  possible. 
He  would  not  tell  his  thought  to  Abby,  but  after  a 
moment's  silence  he  said  to  her: 

"Thee  speaks  of  my  friendship  being  a  comfort  to 
thee;  but  what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it?  If  thee  should 
not  give  thy  heart  to  me,  thee  will  give  it  to  an- 
other, and  then  thee  will  want  no  comfort  from  me, 
and  friendship  will  seem  but  a  poor,  cold  thing.  Thee 
perceives,  does  thee  not,  that  love  is  a  matter  for 
two,  not  for  three?  If  I  am  not  thy  husband  I  am 
nothing  to  thee.  If  thee  is  a  wife  but  not  mine, 
friendship  will  be  but  ceaseless  pain  to  me.  I  can 
bear  to  live  with  less  than  love  from  thee  if  thee  re- 
mains as  thee  is,  but  what  shall  life  be  if  thee  loves 
another?  The  path  is  very  dark  for  me  even  now." 

"I  think  I  shall  never  marry,  George,"  said  poor 
Abby,  feeling  as  if  her  secret  were  a  sore  burden  as 
this  man  spoke  to  her  so  earnestly.  If  she  could 
just  tell  him  all,  how  great  the  relief  would  be !  But 
this  was  impossible. 

"That  has  been  idly  said,  many,  many  times,"  was 


The  Quakeress. 


George's  answer.  "It  has  no  meaning  usually.  What 
thee  means  I  do  not  try  to  fathom.  God  made  men 
and  women  for  marriage  as  their  best  destiny." 

"I  do  not  intend  to  speak  lightly,  or  to  deny  that 
thee  speaks  truly.  Indeed  it  seems  to  me  now,  as  I 
consider  everything,  that  I  shall  not  marry;  but, 
George,  would  it  comfort  thee  at  all  if  I  should  say 
to  thee  that  I  will  never  marry  any  one  but  thee?" 

George  hesitated.  "It  might  be  selfish,"  he  said, 
"and  most  unkind  to  thee  if  I  should  suffer  thee  to 
bind  thyself  with  such  a  promise.  No,  I  will  not 
have  thee  do  it,  though  I  cannot  hide  from  thee  that 
thee  tempts  me  sorely  when  thee  speaks  of  it." 

"I  will  marry  none  but  thee  !"  she  said,  again  put- 
ting her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  with  grave 
eyes  upon  him.  "I  trust,  dear  George,  thee  will  for- 
give me  that  I  can  go  no  farther.  I  thank  thee  from 
a  full  heart  that  thee  has  given  me  thy  love  and  that 
thee  deals  so  generously  with  me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  both  of  them  rose  from  the 
bench  on  which  they  sat. 

"If  I  might  kiss  thy  hand  as  I  thank  thee  —  ?"  he 
said,  and  he  looked  timidly  at  her  while  he  moved 
to  lift  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Lean  down  on  me,"  she  said,  "while  I  tell  thee 
something." 

Then,  still  holding  his  hand,  as  he  bent  his  head  to 
her,  she  put  her  other  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and 
gently  kissed  his  lips. 

"I  owe  thee  that,  my  dearest  friend,  for  all  thy  love 
and  thy  goodness  to  me.  How  shall  I  ever  repay 
thee?" 

She  saw  the  tears  glisten  in  his  eyes  as  they  drew 


George  Tries  His  Fate         163 

apart  and  turning  into  the  garden  path,  slowly 
walked  to  the  house,  and  her  heart  was  sore  for  him. 
His  thought  went  back  to  that  other  woman  whose 
hand  he  had  kissed,  and  he  saw  with  vision  clearer 
than  it  had  ever  been  that  hell  or  heaven  may  be  in 
one  act. 

That  other  woman,  passing  the  south  window  in 
the  second  story  of  the  parsonage,  saw  Abby  give 
to  the  Quaker  preacher  the  pure  kiss  of  friendship. 
She  was  both  amused  and  angry. 

"The  sly  little  hussy!"  she  said.  "She  wants  to 
flirt  with  them  both.  Or  has  she  indeed  thrown  Clay- 
ton clear  over?  And  that  is  the  stern  moralist  who 
prayed  heaven  for  forgiveness  because  I  let  him  kiss 
my  hand !  I  am  beginning  to  get  light  on  these  de- 
mure Quakers!" 

Hardly  had  Abby  and  George  found  their  way  to 
the  porch,  when  Isaac's  carriage  came  to  the  front- 
gate  and  he  and  Rachel  greeted  George.  Rachel 
knew  the  purpose  of  George's  coming  and  summon- 
ing Abby,  the  two  women  entered  the  house,  leaving 
the  men  together  in  the  darkness  that  had  begun  to 
gather  behind  the  vine-wrapped  pillars. 

After  some  random  talk  Isaac  explained  to  George 
the  condition  of  his  finances — a  familiar  story — and 
asked  him  to  lend  him  five  thousand  dollars  upon  the 
security  of  the  house.  George  was  grave. 

"Thee  should  consider  very  seriously,  Friend 
Isaac,"  he  said,  "before  thee  mortgages  thy  home." 

"George,  I  have  considered.  It  is  the  only  bit  of 
property  I  have  unburdened.  In  truth,  it  is  not  mine, 
but  Rachel's;  and  she  is  willing  to  bond  it  so  that  my 
present  difficulties  may  be  bridged  over." 


164  The  Quakeress. 

"But,  what  reason  has  thee  for  thinking  thee  will 
be  in  a  stronger  position  when  this  new  money  is 
gone?" 

"It  will  carry  me  to  the  end  of  the  losing  contract 
which  has  borne  so  heavily  upon  me,  and  leave  me  a 
remainder  which  will  enable  me  to  stock  up  and  run 
the  furnace  with  high  prices  for  my  product." 

"Thee  is  right  not  to  be  despondent,  but  thee  will 
forgive  me  if  I  say  I  remember  more  than  once  be- 
fore thee  has  been  very  sanguine  only  to  encounter 
further  disappointment." 

"Disappointment!"  said  Isaac,  bitterly.  "Yes! 
that  has  become  a  familiar  companion.  But  I  must 
risk  it  again,  or  fail  and  give  up  the  furnace." 

"Why  does  thee  not  take  a  partner  who  has  some 
money?"  asked  George. 

"Find  me  a  fit  one  and  I  will,"  answered  Isaac.  "I 
will  gladly  take  thee  if  thee  will  come  with  me." 

George  laughed  gently.  "No,  no!"  he  said.  "I 
know  nothing  of  iron  manufacture.  I  should  prove 
another  burden  for  thee  to  carry." 

"I  should  have  no  fear  of  that.  Thee  has  the  gift 
of  good  fortune.  Everything  thee  touches  seems  to 
turn  to  gold." 

"Alas!"  said  George,  "thee  sadly  misjudges  me. 
Each  heart  knoweth  his  own  bitterness;  and  if  thee 
could  know  mine  as  I  know  it,  Friend  Isaac,  thee 
would  perceive  that  I  too  have  painful  failures  and 
disappointments." 

"But  thy  business  enterprises  always  have  suc- 
cess !" 

"Yes,"  George  answered,  "I  suppose  they  do;" 


George  Tries  His  Fate.        165 

and  then  he  thought  how  gladly  he  would  exchange 
success  there,  for  the  word  of  promise  that  he  longed 
for  from  the  lips  of  this  unhappy  man's  daughter. 
Then  he  said : 

"I  cannot  see  thee  suffer,  and  I  will  stand  by  thee, 
Friend  Isaac,  but  thee  knows  my  means  are  not  limit- 
less, and  I  cannot  safely  go  much  further." 

"It  is  the  last  time,  George.    The  very  last  time." 

"And  then,  of  course,"  continued  George,  when 
he  had  reflected  for  a  moment,  "thee  fully  recognizes 
that  the  security  given  by  this  house  is  not  for  me 
the  best  security." 

"Why  not?" 

"Thee  knows  that  I  would  not  foreclose  on  thee, 
Friend  Isaac.  Should  I,  for  the  sake  of  these  dollars, 
take  thy  roof  from  the  heads  of  thy  wife  and  daugh- 
ter? I  could  never  recover  the  money  unless  I 
should  survive  all  three  of  you,  and  I  am  not  likely 
to  do  that." 

"But  thee  will  let  me  have  the  money?  There  will 
be  no  reason  for  foreclosure.  I  shall  surely  pay  thee 
the  interest  promptly." 

"I  am  sure  thee  will  try.  Yes,  make  thy  mind 
easy;  thee  shall  have  it." 

"I  thank  thee  heartily  for  thy  kindness."  Isaac 
stopped.  Then  he  moved  uneasily  upon  his  chair; 
he  cleared  his  throat  twice  or  three  times.  George 
perceived  that  he  had  something  more  to  say  and 
found  the  task  not  an  easy  one. 

"I  have  thought,  sometimes,  George,"  he  said  at 
last,  "that  the  property  might  all  go  to  thee  at  any 
rate,  when  Rachel  and  I  are  gone." 


166  The  Quakeress. 

"How  is  that?"  asked  George,  with  a  suspicion  of 
his  meaning. 

"I  hardly  know  if  I  am  right  in  expressing  myself, 
but  we  are  old  friends  and  thee  has  been  most  gen- 
erous to  me,  so  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  say  that 
Rachel  and  I  have  thought  thee  had  regard  for  Abby. 
I  do  not  know  if  thee  has  or  what  thy  purpose  is,  but 
I  may  tell  thee  plainly  that,  even  if  thee  were  a  poor 
man,  that  would  give  us  joy." 

"But  Abby  must  control  that,  does  thee  not 
think?"  said  George  gently. 

"I  am  sure  she  cares  for  thee,"  said  Isaac. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
The  Other  Woman. 

WHEN  George  mounted  his  horse  to  return  home, 
Abby  and  her  mother  came  from  the  house  and  stood 
with  Isaac  at  the  gate  to  bid  him  farewell.  He  waved 
his  hand  to  them  as  he  turned  the  horse  into  the 
highway,  and  while  the  dusk  began  to  deepen  into 
night  slowly  made  his  way  downward  toward  the 
river.  When  he  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  trav- 
ersed the  bit  of  road  that  wound  about  the  roaring 
blast-furnace,  whose  blazing  torch  covered  all  the 
near  landscape  with  ruddy  light,  he  passed  the  cor- 
ner of  the  rock  at  the  mouth  of  the  cleft  in  the  hill 
through  which  he  must  go  to  reach  the  summit.  In 
that  canyon,  deep  between  the  hills  and  almost  over- 
arched by  the  great  trees  that  bordered  it,  there  was 
darkness  made  blacker  by  the  glare  of  the  furnace- 
flame  that  fell  on  rock  and  field  and  tree  by  the  river- 
edge.  Only  the  grey  floor  of  the  roadway  was  visi- 
ble and  that,  as  it  came  to  a  turn  in  its  winding  move- 
ment upward,  disappeared  abruptly  now  and  then  so 
that  there  seemed  to  be  a  barrier  to  further  progress. 
If  George  had  wheeled  about  he  might  have  had 
glimpses  through  the  trees  of  the  lights  that  marked 
the  line  of  the  street  upon  the  Connock  hill..  But 
he  did  not  turn;  he  pushed  onward  in  the  sombre 
depth  of  the  pass  that  had  in  it  the  hush  of  the  night, 
save  for  the  tramp  of  the  horse-hoofs  and  the  plash- 

(167) 


168  TLe  Quakeress. 

ing  of  the  rivulet  that  ran  down  by  the  thick  bushes 
close  by  the  road  among  the  boulders  that  obstructed 
its  course  to  the  river. 

Man  and  horse  knew  well  the  way,  and  the  man, 
with  the  rein  lying  loose  upon  the  neck  of  the  beast, 
heeded  neither  the  heavy  gloom  of  the  pathway  nor 
the  soft  music  of  the  hurrying  brook,  for  the  shadow 
upon  his  soul  was  deeper  than  that  which  involved 
his  road. 

Until  he  had  parted  from  the  people  at  the  grey 
house  and  freed  himself  from  the  bustle  of  the  village 
street,  he  could  not  command  his  faculties  to  exam- 
ine attentively  the  strange  condition  in  which  he  had 
been  placed  by  his  interview  with  Abby.  Before  he 
saw  her  in  the  wood  with  Clayton  on  the  picnic  day 
the  thought  that  she  might  not  be  his  wife  had  never 
once  come  to  him.  Ever  since  as  a  youth  marriage 
had  become  a  part  of  his  plan  of  life,  he  had  regarded 
union  with  Abby  Woolford  as  a  certainty;  and  when, 
after  Clayton  had  appeared  to  him  as  a  possible  rival, 
he  had  reflected  upon  his  life-long  friendship  with 
her,  upon  her  indisputable  liking  for  him,  and  the 
improbability  that  she  would  be  strongly  attracted 
to  one  who  was  not  a  Friend,  he  had  still  been  con- 
fident that  Abby  would  accept  him  when  he  should 
offer  himself. 

And  now  his  mind  was  so  bewildered  by  disap- 
pointment and  grief  and  the  complete  subversion  of 
all  his  plans  that  he  found  it  hard  to  frame  a  reason- 
able conjecture  of  the  motive  for  Abby's  strange  con- 
duct. That  Clayton  Harley  had,  in  some  manner,  in- 
volved himself  with  her,  he  believed;  but,  if  she  cared 


The  Other  Woman.  169 

at  all  for  Clayton,  why  should  she  voluntarily  pledge 
herself  never  to  marry  any  one  but  George  Fotherly? 
There  was,  for  George,  a  comforting  element  of 
hopefulness  in  that  pledge,  and  yet  he  was  enough 
master  of  his  reason  to  perceive  clearly  that  if  she 
loved  him  she  would  not  have  refused  him,  and  if 
she  did  not  love  him  now  what  hope  could  there  be 
that  she  would  ever  love  him?  No  woman  could 
have  had  a  better  chance  to  know  her  mind  about  a 
man  than  Abby  had  had  in  her  long  and  close  fellow- 
ship with  him.  She  must  have  thought  often  of  him 
as  a  suitor,  and  considered  if  she  would  take  him  for 
her  husband.  She  had  refused  to  take  him  when  first 
he  came  to  her  and  entreated  her;  how  then  should 
she  incline  to  do  so  upon  a  future  day? 

Her  preference  for  another  man  alone  could  ex- 
plain her  reluctance  to  commit  herself  to  George, 
and  in  whatever  manner  that  fact  could  be  explained, 
George  found  growing  in  his  heart  fierce  hatred  of 
Clayton.  The  more  he  brooded  over  the  loss  of  the 
affection  that  was  rightfully  his,  and  the  tragic  mis- 
chance that  had  summoned  a  frivolous  boy  to  snatch 
his  beloved  one  from  him  and  to  stab  him  to  the 
heart,  the  more  his  rage  deepened.  Of  all  the 
wrongs  he  had  known  in  this  world  of  bitter  injustice 
it  seemed  to  him  the  most  atrocious  that  this  stranger 
should  have  come  at  such  a  time  and  should  have 
found  favor  with  the  woman  who  was  precious  to 
him.  For  Clayton  to  be  preferred  would  have  been 
humiliating  had  George  not  loved  Abby,  but  to  be 
supplanted  where  he  had  given  affection  which  was 
almost  exalted  into  worship  was  maddening. 


The  Quakeress. 


He  regarded  the  usurper  with  malevolence  that 
became  ferocious  as  he  cherished  it.  Swelling  within 
his  breast  was  deadly  hatred  which,  as  he  pressed  for- 
ward among  the  shadows  of  the  road,  gained  such 
proportions  that  he  found  luxury  in  permitting  his 
imagination  to  think  of  himself  as  seizing  the  South- 
erner and  slaying  him  and  trampling  upon  him  and 
tearing  him  asunder.  The  Quaker  became  a  savage. 
Hell  swept  in  upon  his  soul  as  his  passion  rose  into 
fury.  He  became  cruel  with  hate  and  pain.  He  held 
his  teeth  hard  together  and  breathed  fiercely  through 
them,  and  struck  his  clenched  hand  upon  his  thigh. 
To  be  rid  of  his  rival  and  to  hold  Abby  to  himself, 
he  felt  as  if  he  could  steep  his  hands  in  blood.  And, 
as  he  nursed  his  rage  and  found  a  kind  of  exultant 
joy  in  it,  the  thought,  which  would  press  upon  him, 
of  his  religious  profession  and  his  preaching  of  the 
Gospel,  was  repelled  with  angry  disdain.  They 
seemed  half  contemptible.  The  fire  within  his  brain 
burned  with  such  volcanic  fury  that  he  was  almost 
ready  to  sacrifice  everything,  his  faith,  his  life  and 
his  hopes  and  to  plunge  forward  to  perdition  if  he 
might  rend  the  heart  of  Clayton  Harley. 

Then,  when  the  wave  of  wild  passion  reached  its 
topmost  height  and  the  darkness  of  the  glen  was  sun- 
shine in  comparison  with  the  black  misery  of  his 
spirit,  the  revulsion  came.  He  shuddered  to  find 
within  him  the  murderous  wish  that,  as  he  well  knew, 
carried  with  it  almost  the  guilt  of  murder.  In  upon 
him  poured,  as  in  a  flood,  the  meaning  of  what  he 
had  been;  of  the  call  that  had  come  to  him  to  follow 
Christ;  of  his  obedience  to  the  summons;  of  the  ra- 


The  Other  Woman. 


diance  with  which  the  Spirit  had  filled  the  secret 
chambers  of  his  being;  of  his  ministry  of  exhortation 
in  the  meeting-house;  of  the  sweet  serenity  and  peace 
that  had  been  his  when  he  had  heeded  the  Voice 
that  spoke  to  him  within;  above  all,  of  the  hours  he 
had  spent  in  wrestling  prayer  against  temptation, 
and  of  the  mighty  victories  he  had  won  as  he  came 
forth  from  the  chamber  where  he  had  met  with  God. 

By  nature  fierce  and  passionate,  the  conflict  with 
evil  often  had  been  hard,  but  now  he  was  sure  that 
all  the  other  battles  of  his  Christian  warfare  were 
tnfling  compared  with  that  he  must  fight  against  this 
new  and  frightful  temptation  to  hate  his  rival.  He 
would  try  to  make  the  fight  by  remembering  the  suf- 
fering of  Christ  and  the  burden  of  obligation  that  lay 
upon  George  Fotherly  to  endure  even  bitterest  suf- 
fering patiently  for  Christ's  sake  and  to  vanquish. 
as  the  Saviour  did,  the  Satanic  force  that  assailed 
him.  He  saw  suddenly  with  horror  that  however 
terrible  the  loss  that  had  come  to  him  from  the  sup- 
planter,  far  more  terrible  was  the  wild-beast  passion 
that  had  almost  mastered  hfin  and  made  him  an  as- 
sassin. Then  he  turned  his  thought  strongly  to 
Christ  as  his  one  hope  and  his  salvation,  and  lifting 
high  his  hand  he  cried  piteously  to  Him  as  if  to  ask 
Him  for  help. 

The  horse,  startled  by  the  cry  and  the  gesture, 
shied  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  thrust  the  rider's 
leg  harshly  against  the  rock.  George  came  back  at 
once  it  seemed  to  him  from  another  world,  and  then 
ashamed  and  penitent,  but  with  a  lighter  heart,  he 
put  his  horse  to  the  canter  and  soon  came  to  his 
gateway. 


The  Quakeress. 


It  was  open,  and  he  hurried  to  the  house.  When 
the  man  had  taken  away  the  horse,  George  entered 
the  hall,  where  the  lights  were  burning,  and  flung  his 
hat  and  whip  and  gloves  upon  the  table. 

The  house  seemed  lonely  and  still  —  still  but  for 
the  slow  click,  click  of  the  tall  clock  that  stood  in  the 
recess  by  the  dining-room  door.  George  had  often 
thought  of  the  day  when  he  should  bring  a  beloved 
wife  into  that  hall  and  make  her  mistress  of  all  the 
house.  He  laughed  bitterly  now  as,  throwing  him- 
self into  an  arm-chair  opposite  the  clock,  he  remem- 
bered his  happiness  when  he  had  dreamed  of  Abby 
standing  there  and  how  fulfilment  of  that  dream  had 
now  become  impossible.  His  house  was  empty  and 
forlorn.  There  would  be  no  mistress  now;  bachelor- 
hood was  to  be  his  doom,  drear  solitude  with  the 
round  of  care  and  toil  from  which  all  joy  was  van- 
ished. He  counted  over  the  farmer  friends  about 
him  who  had  wives  and  sweet  domestic  life.  The 
preciousness  of  these  possessions  had  often  been 
borne  in  upon  him,  but  never  as  it  was  now  when  the 
door  to  the  fair  kingdom  of  Love  was  shut  in  his 
face.  The  bachelor  men  of  his  years  whom  he  knew, 
what  had  they  for  compensation?  Some  were  pro- 
fane and  of  gross  conduct;  some  were  queer  and  un- 
pleasant. He  could  not  think  of  life  as  they  lived  it 
without  feeling  of  repulsion.  The  longer  he  dwelt 
upon  the  two  alternatives  the  deeper  the  woman- 
hunger  came  upon  him,  and  the  more  intolerable  ex- 
istence appeared  to  him  without  a  partner  into  whose 
life  he  could  merge  his  own. 

He  glanced  upward  as  the  thoughts  chased   each 


"lie  OtKer  Woman. 


173 


other  through  his  mind,  and  from  the  picture-frame 
George  Fox  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him  with  those 
strange  dark  eyes  that  had  something  unearthly  in 
them,  George  Fotherly  arose  from  his  chair  and 
walked  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  Turning,  the  eyes 
were  still  upon  him.  With  a  slight  laugh,  he  went 
to  the  other  end  of  the  hall  by  the  front  door  and  the 
eyes  of  the  picture  followed  him.  He  came  back,  and 
standing  before  the  engraving  he  looked  straight  at 
the  face  of  the  first  Quaker  and  said  in  half-mocking 
voice : 

"What  hast  thou  to  say  to  me  about  this  business, 
thou  leathern-breeched  Friend?  Can  I  learn  any- 
thing of  thee?  All  through  thy  youth  and  until  far 
on  toward  the  end  of  thy  life  thou  didst  not  know 
the  love  of  woman;  or  didst  thou  fear  it,  George? 
Was  it  true  of  thee,  thou  ancient  Quaker,  that  thou 
perceivedst  a  snare  in  the  pressure  of  the  soft  hand 
and  the  sweetness  of  the  kiss  of  one  who  should  love 
thee;  and  so,  while  thou  didst  strive  to  climb  the 
heights  of  holiness  thou  didst  shun  it  all  as  if  it  had 
a  taint  of  sin?  Was  it  in  recompense  for  this  self- 
mastery  that  thy  vision  was  made  so  clear  that  thou 
couldst  read  the  very  souls  of  men  and  even  foresee 
the  shadow  of  death  creeping  upon  them?  Was  it 
revealed  to  thee,  Friend  George,  as  thou  earnest 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Almighty,  that  it  is  better 
for  man  to  be  alone,  and  that  the  price  of  sainthood 
is  the  supremest  sacrifice?  No,  for  when  thou  hadst 
learnt  to  breathe  the  very  breath  of  Heaven  thou 
didst  not  any  longer  suffer  Paul  to  be  thy  counselor, 
but  didst  consider  in  what  manner  a  far  holier  One 


The 


174  ne     uaeress. 

made  the  marriage  of  the  man  with  the  woman  the 
type  of  his  own  mystical  union  with  his  Bride,  the 
Church.  Didst  thou  not  then  find  that  it  was  alto- 
gether well  for  thee,  thou  strange,  clean-souled, 
highly-gifted  George,  that  God  had  given  thee  one 
to  love  thee  better  than  she  loved  herself,  and  to  be 
thy  dear  consort  forever  and  forever  in  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens?  I  would  that  thou  couldst  speak  to  me 
now,  instead  of  fixing  thine  eyes  upon  me  and  tell  me 
which  is  better.  The  high  spiritual  things  were 
reached  by  thee  without  a  wife,  but  God  has  given 
to  me  a  love  of  woman  with  which  it  seems  to  me  I 
might,  her  sweet  counsel  helping  me,  go  surely  heav- 
enward and  uplift  her  with  me,  hand-in-hand.  I 
honor  thee  and  fain  would  follow  thee — but  not  alone, 
until  I  too  shall  be  permitted  to  see  His  face." 

"And  thou,  William,"  he  said,  wheeling  about  and 
looking  at  the  portrait  of  Penn  which  hung  upon  the 
other  wall.  "I  see  in  thine  eyes  no  strange,  wonder- 
ful light  from  the  spirit  world.  Thy  face  is  bland  and 
smiling.  Thou  art  well-fed  and  carnal.  I  see  thy 
courtier-practice  in  thy  countenance.  Shall  I  take 
counsel  of  thee,  thou  smug  and  prosperous  Quaker, 
who  knowest  little  of  the  discipline  of  adversity?  If 
George  says  'marry  not  in  youth/  and  thou  sayest 
'I  married  twice,'  where  then  lieth  my  path  of  wis- 
dom and  felicity  ?  Shall  a  man  truly  love  two  women 
in  perfect  spiritual  union,  or  is  it  possible  that  love 
is  but  once  and  then  forever?  And  if  so,  William, 
which  one  was  thy  first  love  and  last,  and  which  one 
hast  thou  claimed  in  Heaven?  William,  I  like  not 
thy  example,  more  than  I  like  that  smirk  upon  thy 


The  Other  Woman.  175 

rotund  face,  which  is  an  offence  to  me  whilst  my 
heart  is  bitter.  Thee  and  George  have  no  comfort 
for  me  in  my  sorrow.  I  leave  thee  to  adjust  thy  dif- 
ferences, and  I  take  with  me  my  own  sacred  passion 
for  my  dearest.  If  God  shall  give  her  to  me,  I  will 
marry  her  in  spite  of  George.  If  God  shall  then  take 
her  away  from  me,  I  will  marry  no  other,  in  despite 
of  William." 

He  turned  away  and  flinging  open  the  front  door, 
went  out  into  the  darkness  and,  sitting  in  his  great 
chair,  he  put  his  hands  over  his  face,  and  held  them 
there  while  they  were  wet  with  tears. 

When  he  had  grown  calmer  he  looked  out  through 
the  night  over  the  valley  below  him  and  permitted 
his  thought  to  dwell  upon  Abby.  She  seemed  love- 
lier and  more  precious  than  ever,  now  that  the 
chance  was  become  small  that  he  would  ever  possess 
her.  His  imagination  and  his  passion  glorified  her. 

The  ideal  woman  in  each  man's  mind  never  lives 
physically.  The  real  woman  may  be  disappointing. 
Now  and  then  she  is  vulgar.  The  young  lover  who 
has  tasted  spiritual  love  is  always  sure  he  has  found 
her;  but  her  radiance  is  dimmed  by  the  commonplace 
of  familiar  daily  life.  It  is  the  woman  of  the  mind 
that  men  love  and  long  for;  the  woman  who  does  not 
and  in  the  flesh  cannot  exist.  They  dream  of  her, 
and  always  she  has  perfect  loveliness;  the  sweet  spirit 
and  physical  beauty  without  flaw  or  wrinkle.  Old 
married  lovers  find  their  ideal  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  as  they  both  become  less  and  less  comely  in 
body.  The  pure  in  heart  will  have  their  dreams  come 
true  in  Heaven.  The  ideal  woman  is  the  possible 


Tke  Quakeress. 


woman  —  possible  spiritually.  We  foretaste  Heaven 
as  we  yearn  for  her.  There,  in  the  union  of  two  pure 
natures  in  one  being,  the  true  woman  will  be  forever 
the  spouse,  the  light,  the  life  and  the  joy  of  the  man 
whom  God  has  made  her  husband. 

When  marriage  had  appeared  to  George  to  be  a 
thing  he  could  turn  to  at  any  time  he  had  put  it  by 
for  a  convenient  season.  Always  he  felt  that  he  had 
but  to  ask  Abby  and  she  would  at  once  consent;  why, 
then,  should  he  ask  her  until  all  things  were  ready? 
Then  he  would  permit  his  lips  to  speak  the  love  that 
was  in  his  heart  and  hers,  and  then  he  would  make 
her  his  wife  and  bring  her  to  the  home  he  had  pre- 
pared for  her  upon  the  hill-top.  But  when  all  his 
plans  were  roughly  overset,  and  easy,  tranquil,  com- 
placent movement  towards  wedlock  was  no  longer 
possible,  then,  suddenly,  he  found  within  himself  an 
imperious  wish  for  speedy  marriage. 

As  he  sat  there  and  considered  his  vanished  hopes 
and  frustrated  plans  the  sense  of  loneliness  deepened 
within  him  and  to  have  a  wife  and  mistress  for  his 
home  seemed  so  necessary  to  his  peace  that  he  felt 
as  if  he  could  not  longer  wait  for  her. 

Never  before,  whilst  the  love  of  a  woman  was 
assured  to  him,  had  he  known  with  what  fierceness  the 
soul  may  hunger  for  its  mate.  Now,  with  his  own 
desire  baffled  and  his  heart  craving  the  love  that 
was  denied  it,  he  thought  of  the  myriads  of  women. 
helpless  and  voiceless,  who  sit  with  folded  hands  hid- 
ing deep  their  strong  yearnings  for  wifehood  and 
motherhood;  and  of  the  sad  mute  tragedy  of  the 
loveless  lives  whose  longings  are  smothered,  whose 


The  Other  Woman.  177 

passion  smoulders,  and  which  wait  famishing  and 
sorrowful  for  those  who  will  never  come.  "He  com- 
eth  not !" — that,  he  now  for  the  first  time  discerned, 
is  the  wailing  heart-cry  of  multitudes  who  dare  not 
speak  the  words,  but  who  in  silent  anguish  surrender 
the  secret  passionate  hope  that  gave  to  existence  all 
its  brightness. 

But  for  the  man,  he  thought,  the  case  is  different. 
He  is  the  waited-for.  He  need  not  suffocate  his  na- 
ture. If  one  woman  shut  him  out,  another  may  open 
her  heart  to  him;  and  the  earth  swarms  with  lovely 
women.  Is  there  none  for  George  Fotherly?  His 
hand  fell  upon  the  table  whereon  Dolly  Harley  had 
made  venture  into  the  mysteries  of  palmistry.  Like 
a  flash  of  light  the  remembrance  of  her  darted  in 
upon  his  mind.  He  drew  a  short  breath,  and  his 
heart-beat  quickened.  He  arose,  and  thrusting  his 
hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  he  strode  up  and  down 
the  length  of  the  porch.  He  saw  her  face  and  her 
form;  he  caught  the  sound  of  her  voice;  he  heard  her 
bright  gay  laugh.  She  had  favored  him,  surely.  He 
had  thought  her  free  and  forward;  but  by  what  right, 
indeed,  should  he  judge  her?  What  was  his  skill  in 
woman's  ways?  Was  it  not  presumption  for  him  to 
believe  that  he  could  read  her  soul?  Might  he  not 
have  mistaken  the  mere  innocent  lightness  and  gaiety 
of  this  young  creature  for  an  offence,  and  was  he  not 
guilty  of  uncharitableness?  He  felt  disposed  to  re- 
pent his  harshness.  The  stern  severity  of  the  Quaker 
preacher  was  not  the  right  measure  of  the  conduct 
of  one  who  had  grown  up  among  the  world's  people. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  fair,  and  alluring,  and  she  was 


The  Quakeress. 


a  woman,  and  the  longing  for  woman-help  was 
strong  in  his  soul  just  now;  so,  why  should  he  not 
see  her  once  more,  and,  while  rinding  pleasure  in  her 
company,  make  another  estimate  of  her? 

The  thought  rushed  in  upon  him  that  she  had 
asked  him  to  ride  with  her.  He  would  accept  the 
invitation.  No  harm  could  come  from  that.  Abby 
could  not  object  to  it.  He  was  resolved  not  to  move 
one  inch  away  from  her  in  his  deeper  feeling,  nor 
would  he  permit  the  other  woman  to  be  more  to  him 
than  she  had  been.  But  ride  with  her  he  would;  and 
when  he  entered  the  house  his  mind  had  been  made 
up  to  see  her  or  to  write  to  her  on  the  morrow. 

On  the  morrow,  still  resolute  to  fulfil  his  purpose, 
he  drove  over  in  the  morning  to  the  parsonage  and 
when  he  came  back  again  he  had  with  him  in  the  car- 
riage Dolly  Harley,  full  of  delight  that  she  should 
once  more  ride  upon  the  horse  with  which  she  had 
a  brief  frolic  on  the  picnic  day. 

And  when  they  reached  George's  house  she 
waited  in  her  riding  dress  while  the  horses  were  made 
ready,  and  then  when  George  had  placed  her  upon 
Major  and  had  mounted  his  own  stout  horse,  together 
she  and  her  companion  cantered  down  the  curved 
driveway  to  the  gate  and  out  upon  the  country-road 
that  ran  along  the  summit  of  the  plateau. 

The  horseman  and  his  companion  were  notable 
figures  as  they  passed  swiftly  over  the  lonely  high- 
way. She  gave  to  him  her  approval  at  once  as  she 
saw  the  grace  and  mastery  with  which  he  controlled 
the  great  beautiful  bay  horse  that  carried  him.  "No 
Southern  gentleman  could  ride  more  elegantly,"  she 


The  Other  Woman.  179 

said  to  herself.  Big  and  handsome  he  was  when  he 
stood  upon  the  ground,  but  astride  the  huge  beast 
he  seemed  to  have  gained  in  force  until  he  looked 
to  the  girl  to  be  possessed  of  a  giant's  strength,  while 
his  calm  quiet  face,  with  its  deep-set  eyes,  spoke  to 
her  of  power  of  intellect  and  of  character. 

She  could  have  gone  away  from  him  forever  and 
never  felt  a  pang  of  regret,  and  yet  as  she  rode  be- 
side him  and  looked  at  him,  she  exulted  in  him.  And 
he,  glancing  now  and  then  at  her  as  her  form  swayed 
to  the  motion  of  the  horse,  with  her  dark  hair  flying 
behind  her,  with  her  cheeks  glowing  with  the  exer- 
cise, and  with  her  black  eyes  radiant  with  pleasure, 
felt  glad  to  be  with  her. 

It  is  but  a  rough  classification  of  the  sentiment  that 
lies  between  men  and  women  to  put  spiritual  love  by 
itself  and  to  call  every  other  thing  love  of  the  sex. 
Spiritual  love  does  indeed  stand  alone,  high,  holy, 
heavenly,  having  eternity  for  its  portion;  it  is  love 
outright  and  complete,  absorbing,  final;  it  is  soul- 
fusion;  the  return  of  the  two  half-natures  to  whole- 
ness; the  end  of  the  cycle  which  began  with  that  act 
represented  in  the  allegory  as  the  removal  of  the  rib 
from  the  breast  of  the  man.  But  everything  else  is 
not  tainted  with  brutality.  The  girl  in  this  case  had 
irrepressible  admiration  for  the  physical  man,  and  it 
was  a  necessary  part  of  her  woman-nature  that  his 
bodily  force  and  beauty  should  attract  her  strongly; 
but  she  would  have  found  no  charm  in  him  had  there 
not  been  something  much  more  admirable.  His  in- 
tellectual superiority  counted  for  much,  but  even 
that  was  less  alluring  than  the  manly  force  which 


The  Quakeress. 


showed  itself  in  all  he  said  and  did  as  the  result  of 
lofty  character. 

If  she  had  been  asked  to  marry  him  she  would 
have  doubted.  That  he  was  rich  was  an  agreeable 
fact  to  consider,  but  she  was  not  poor.  His  religious 
faith  and  practice  were  upon  the  whole  repulsive. 
Spiritual  things  being  spiritually  discerned,  she,  who 
had  no  spiritual  experience,  thought  all  the  things 
that  she  encountered  in  his  religious  conduct  either 
dreary  or  absurd.  Even  if  she  had  loved  him,  the 
fact  that  he  was  a  preacher  would  have  been  a  count 
against  him  which  would  have  impelled  her  to  con- 
sider before  she  accepted  him.  His  attitude  toward 
religion  was  quite  as  incomprehensible  to  her  as  it 
would  have  been  to  a  pagan  savage.  Nor  was  her 
curiosity  about  it  excited  by  this  strong  man's  de- 
votion to  it.  She  had  no  care  to  study  the  phenome- 
non. She  regarded  the  whole  matter  with  feelings 
of  repugnance,  particularly  when  George  made  her 
the  subject  of  his  sermon.  But  she  liked  him  and 
liked  him  much  because  the  conscious  but  uncon- 
fessed  weakness  of  her  woman-nature  discerned  in 
him  the  strength  that  it  craved;  but  more,  far  more 
than  this,  because  she  plainly  saw  that  she  attracted 
him.  Whether  he  might  love  her  or  not  she  did  not 
estimate;  nor  did  she  think  what  sacrifice  she  would 
make  for  him  or  how  far  she  would  go  with  him  if 
he  should  beckon  her.  She  found  pleasure  in  his 
companionship  and  in  his  admiration  of  her,  and  she 
would  taste  that  pleasure,  without  regarding  the  fu- 
ture for  him  or  for  her. 

As  for  the  man,  he  could  not  help  but  that  his  eyes 


The  Other  Woman.  lSi 

should  find  feast  for  themselves  in  her  beauty;  that 
they  would  have  done  at  any  time,  while  a  restrained 
spirit  kept  itself  from  evil.  But  now  he  had  a  great 
longing  for  woman-help  and  woman-sympathy,  and 
this  woman's  presence  was  a  kind  of  consolation  for 
him.  She  was  graceful,  and  gentle,  and  considerate. 
Her  ways  were  pretty;  she  was  free  and  joyous  with 
him,  but  chiefly  there  was  a  kind  of  subtle  deference 
in  her  manner  which  he  felt  and  liked.  No  matter 
what  his  spiritual  exaltation  or  the  measure  of  his 
love  for  another  woman,  he  was  not  exempt  from  the 
tew  that  impels  men  to  covet  women's  praise  more 
than  any  other  thing  and  to  shrink  with  dismay  from 
their  disdain.  And  this  woman  plainly  was  ready  to 
give  him  the  approval  that  he  coveted.  She  pleased 
him  more  and  more  as  he  remained  with  her.  Clearly 
he  had  misjudged  her  heretofore.  She  was  not  evil. 
She  might  be  flippant;  but  there  was  loveliness  too, 
and  perhaps  if  right  influences  could  be  brought  to 
bear  she  might  become  wholly  lovely.  Her  compan- 
ionship made  him  joyful.  He  began  to  think  whether 
he  might  not  be  willing  to  consider  her  seriously.  If 
Abby  were  beyond  his  reach,  why  should  he  not 
stifle  his  love  for  her  and  look  about  for  another 
woman  who  should  speedily  become  his  wife?  He 
did  not  like  the  thought  at  first;  but,  as  he  rode 
along,  he  found  his  mind  coming  back  to  it,  again 
and  again,  while  Dolly  chatted  and  laughed  and 
turned  her  bright  handsome  face  repeatedly  to  him. 
Soon  th'ey  came  into  the  Gulf  road  and  moving 
swiftly  forward,  they  passed  down  into  the  valley 
that  ran  upward  from  the  river,  then  through  the 


The  Quakeress. 


great  gap  in  the  hills  into  which  Washington's  rag- 
ged army  thrust  itself  on  its  way  to  the  dismal  en- 
campment at  Valley  Forge,  and  then  up  the  hill  again 
to  the  border  of  the  forest  that  stretches  away  to  the 
southward. 

Into  this  they  entered  by  a  narrow  road  which 
compelled  them  to  keep  close  together,  and  deeper 
and  deeper  they  plunged  in  the  woods,  breathing  the 
scent  of  the  evergreens,  of  the  mosses  and  the  dead 
leaves  and  all  the  soft  perfumes  of  the  forest,  until 
at  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  the  little  brook 
ran  clear  across  the  road  beneath  a  frail  wooden 
bridge. 

Here  George  stopped  his  horse.  Helping  Dolly 
to  dismount,  he  gave  the  beasts  drink  from  the  rivu- 
let and  then  tied  their  heads  to  the  crumbling  rail 
fence  beside  the  bridge.  Beyond  the  fence  the  brook 
widened  into  a  clear  pool  of  sweet  running  water  in 
an  open  place  wherein  the  tiny  ferns  grew  thickly 
and  clumps  of  wild  roses  bloomed  among  the  trees. 

Dolly  was  in  high  spirits.  She  thought  the  place 
strangely  beautiful,  and  her  companion  delightful. 
The  sombreness  of  the  preacher  had  vanished  with 
the  strong  exercise  of  the  ride,  and  with  a  touch  of 
grace  lent  to  him  by  his  Quaker  speech  he  talked  to 
her  as  gaily  as  if  he  had  never  known  a  serious 
thought. 

They  lingered  but  for  a  few  moments,  and  then, 
when  they  would  make  ready  to  mount,  he  plucked 
a  wild  rose  from  the  bush  and  pinned  it  upon  her 
bosom. 

"Flowers."  he  said,  "are  never  so  lovely  as  when 
fair  women  wear  them." 


H 

it 


I 


The  Other  Woman. 


183 


Upon  horseback  again  they  returned  through  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  to  the  Gulf  Road,  and  went 
onward  for  miles  and  miles  toward  the  region  where 
Valley  Forge  lies  deep  among  the  hills. 

Then  George,  who  had  been  forgetful  of  all  else 
but  his  interest  in  his  companion,  perceived  that  the 
sky  was  darkened  in  the  West,  and  that  a  great  storm 
was  impending. 

He  spoke  of  it  to  Dolly  and  they  stopped  their 
horses. 

"We  have  not  time  enough,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
reflected  for  a  moment,  "to  reach  home.  I  think  it 
would  be  better  to  press  forward  that  we  may  find 
shelter  in  the  sheds  of  the  Valley  Meeting." 

So  they  started  again  and  beneath  a  black  sky  that 
had  made  all  the  landscape  dark,  they  came  to  the 
yard  of  the  meeting-house,  and  as  they  entered  it  the 
first  rain-drops  fell.  They  hurried  across  the  enclosure 
and  had  but  fairly  reached  the  sheds  when  the  storm 
broke  with  fury. 

Beneath  the  sheds  they  stood,  upon  horseback, 
for  a  little  while,  and  then  George  said : 

"The  storm  will  not  soon  be  over,  and  it  is  damp 
and  dismal  here.  Would  thee  not  rather  wait  within 
the  meeting-house?" 

"If  you  think  it  better,"  answered  Dolly. 

George  leaped  from  his  horse  and  tried  the  door 
of  the  house,  close  by  the  end  of  the  sheds.  It  opened 
to  his  thrust.  He  helped  Dolly  to  descend,  and  they 
went  into  the  building,  which  was  so  dark  that  at 
first  they  could  hardly  see  it  plainly. 

"Sit  there,  Friend  Harley,"  he  said,  leading  her 


The  Quakeress. 


to  a  seat.  "We  shall  be  safer  and  more  comfortable 
here.  I  am  sorry  I  should  have  led  thee  so  far  from 
home  on  so  ill  a  day." 

"I  am  not  at  all  sorry,"  she  answered.  "We  are 
away  from  the  rain  and  I  think  it  delightful  to  be 
here  in  so  odd  a  place  under  such  circumstances." 

"It  is  the  Valley  Meeting-house.  I  know  it  well," 
said  George.  "I  feel  quite  at  home  under  its  roof." 

"Can  two  people  have  a  meeting?"  she  asked  in 
jest. 

George  instantly  thought  of  a  sweet  and  refresh- 
ing meeting  he  once  had  with  Abby  in  her  garden. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "but  we  will  not  attempt  it 
here.  Reverence  is  required." 

"And  you  think  me  irreverent  !  You  may  preach 
to  me.  Why,"  she  asked,  suddenly  turning  the  con- 
versation, "did  you  care  to  have  me  ride  with  you 
to-day?  You  scolded  me  when  last  you  saw  me." 

"I  had  promised  thee  a  ride,  and  then  —  " 

"And  then!    What  then?" 

"I  was  lonely.     I  wanted  companionship." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes.  There  are  times  when  a  lonely  man  longs 
for  woman's  help  and  sympathy." 

"But  you  can  have  that  whenever  you  want  it." 

"How?" 

"If  a  woman  will  kiss  you  she  will  come  to  you." 

"I  do  not  understand  thee,"  he  said,  but  in  truth 
he  suspected  she  had  seen  Abby  kiss  him.  Dolly 
would  make  no  explanation. 

"Did  you  notice,"  she  asked,  "that  Clayton  and 
Abby  were  very  friendly?  I  thought  she  fancied 
him.'" 


The  Otker  Woman.  185 

George  felt  his  heart  beat  fast.  He  was  half 
angry.  Dolly  continued : 

"And  I  was  pleased.  She  is  a  dear  girl  and  would 
make  a  lovely  wife  for  Clayton.  But  I  am  beginning 
to  be  doubtful  of  her,  after  all." 

"Why?" 

"You  are  not  engaged  to  her?" 

"No." 

"The  kiss  of  friendship,"  she  said,  "and  the  kiss 
of  love  must  be  different." 

"It  is    different,"  answered  George  gravely. 

"Is  there  a  third  kind?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"You  asked  forgiveness  of  Heaven  when  you 
kissed  my  hand  the  other  day.  Was  that  a  greater 
offence  than  kissing  lip  to  lip?" 

"It  is  a  perilous  topic  for  discussion,"  he  said. 
"But  I  must  speak  plainly  to  thee.  I  perceive  thee 
witnessed  that  which  passed  between  Abby  and  me 
in  the  garden  yesterday.  I  owe  it  to  her  to  tell  thee 
she  had  just  brought  great  grief  to  her  old  play- 
mate and  friend  whom,  without  shame,  she  might  kiss 
to  express  her  sorrow.  I  pray  thee  think  no  harm 
of  it." 

"I  should  not  have  jested  about  it,"  she  said,  be- 
coming grave  and  dropping  her  eyes  to  the  floor, 
"Surely  if  I  could  help  you  in  your  trouble  I  would." 

He  looked  at  her  eagerly  and  a  strong  impulse 
urged  him  to  give  her  his  confidence  and  to  take 
comfort  from  her;  but  his  better  judgment  restrained 
him. 

"Thee  is  very  good  and  kind,"  he  said,  "but  sorrow 
is  its  own  best  counselor." 


The  Quakeress 


"I  was  foolish,"  she  answered,  "to  suppose  that 
one  so  weak  as  I  could  be  helpful  to  a  strong  man, 
but  indeed  I  am  deeply  sorry  that  you  suffer." 

"Thee  has  helped  me  already  by  thy  bright  and 
happy  companionship;  and  thee  makes  me  grieve 
that  I  was  harsh  with  thee  the  other  day." 

"I  have  forgiven  it,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 
"You  thought  it  your  duty  to  preach  to  me,  but  I  do 
not  like  preaching,  even  if  I  am  in  sore  need  of  it. 
When  you  rise  so  far  above  me  you  frighten  me;  but 
I  should  be  but  half  a  woman  if  I  saw  you  sorrowful 
and  did  not  feel  concern  for  you.  It  is  but  a  little 
thing  indeed  if  I  can  bring  you  any  comfort  by  riding 
with  you,  for  that  for  me  is  self-  indulgence,  not  self- 
sacrifice." 

The  room  grew  darker,  the  storm  more  violent. 

"Thee  is  not  afraid  of  the  storm?"  asked  George. 

"If  I  were  alone  surely  I  should  be.  But  not  while 
you  are  with  me.  Strange,  is  it  not,  that  everything 
seems  more  terrible  when  one  is  alone?  You  cannot 
protect  me  from  the  storm,  but  because  you  are  here 
I  fear  nothing.  Were  you  not  here  I  should  imag- 
ine I  saw  peril  in  every  shadow  in  the  room." 

"It  is  my  deep  sense  of  loneliness  in  sunshine  and 
in  storm,  that  makes  me  glad  to  have  thee  for  my 
companion,  even  for  a  little  while." 

"Men  and  women  need  each  other  for  comrades 
as  well  as  consorts,  don't  they?  Can  we  not  just  be 
friends,  sometimes?"  asked  Dolly. 

"I  wish  it  might  be  so,  were  there  no  peril  in  it. 
But  thee  will  have  no  peril  if  I  might  call  thee  my 
friend." 


The  Otker  Woman.  187 

"No  peril  that  you  will  chide  me?" 

"I  will  not  chide  thee.  I  will  cherish  thee  if  thee 
will  be  just  my  comrade  as  a  man  might  be,  to  give 
me  solace  and  cheer.  But  thee  will  not  consent  to 
take  up  that  burden,  will  thee?" 

"If  I  were  worthy  to  be  so  near  to  you  and  to  have 
your  favor;  but  you  do  not  in  your  heart  think  that 
of  me." 

"I  think  thee  very  sweet  and  gracious  and  that  I 
am  but  a  poor  creature  with  strong  hunger  in  my 
soul  for  blessing  from  such  a  hand  as  thine.  Com- 
rades !  It  is  a  word  of  promise  and  encouragement ! 
I  call  thee  comrade  now." 

"I  will  answer  to  the  name  if  you  will  have  it  so, 
and  I  will  give  you  a  token  of  my  comradeship." 

She  rose  and  came  near  to  him.  Loosening  from 
her  bosom  the  flower  he  had  put  there,  she  leaned 
over  and  fastened  it  upon  his  coat.  It  seemed  to 
him  she  kissed  it  while  her  head  was  drooping,  and 
he  smelled  the  perfume  of  her  splendid  hair.  She 
put  her  hand  upon  the  rose  to  keep  it  in  its  place, 
while  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"Comrades !"  he  said,  and  his  hands  were  upon  her 
arms.  She  was  very  still,  and  her  eyes  seemed. misty 
as  he  gazed  down  into  them  and  held  her  there. 
Then  beneath  his  steadfast  look  her  eyelids  fell,  and 
gently  turning  her  face  away  she  hid  it  upon  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat.  She  felt  the  tremor  that  passed 
through  him.  In  the  swirl  of  his  mind  he  could  think 
of  no  other  word  he  dared  to  say. 

She  withdrew  suddenly  from  his  grasp,  and  facing 
the  door  she  said : 


The  Quakeress. 


"We  will  go  home!" 

"Still  it  is  raining,"  he  said,  as  one  suddenly  awak- 
ened from  a  dream. 

"But  we  will  go  at  once." 

"I  cannot  permit  thee  to  be  drenched  by  the  rain." 

"It  will  not  hurt  me." 

"If  thee  is  in  earnest  to  go,  thee  will  put  my  coat 
about  thee." 

"And  have  you  suffer  for  me?" 

"Yes,  my  comrade,"  he  answered,  "if  suffering 
were  to  be,  but  I  shall  suffer  not  at  all.  Here,  let  me 
clothe  thee  with  it." 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  put  it  about  her,  fairly 
covering  her  with  it.  Then  he  buttoned  it  from  top 
to  bottom  and  turned  up  the  sleeves  for  her.  With 
her  hand  in  his  he  led  her  out  and  lifted  her  upon 
the  horse,  where  she  sat  with  no  smile  upon  her  face. 
Mounting  his  own  horse,  he  came  to  her  side,  and 
through  the  drizzle  of  rain  they  went  upon  the  high- 
way and  sharply  cantered  toward  home. 

He  glanced  at  her  again  and  again  as  she  rode  be- 
side him  or  for  a  moment  plunged  on  ahead  of  him, 
but  she  set  her  face  forward,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  to  left  and  making  no  utterance.  She  puzzled 
him;  and  his  conscience  was  not  at  ease.  He  had  a 
dull  feeling  of  guiltiness.  Deep  down  in  his  soul  he 
knew  that  he  should  never  be  ready  to  offer  marriage 
to  her;  and  that  talk  of  comradeship  was  idle  where 
passion  at  any  moment  may  burst  into  flame.  Yet 
her  attractiveness  for  him  remained  and  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  regret  that  she  seemed  sweet  to  him 
and  that  her  touch  upon  him  had  been  delicious.  He 


The  Other  Woman.  i89 

would  not  now  intrude  himself  upon  her  if  she 
wished  to  be  silent.  Speech  from  her  lips  was  cer- 
tain when  they  reached  his  home.  And  so  on  and 
on  they  went,  swiftly,  side  by  side,  through  the  rain- 
pools  of  the  roadway,  with  the  yellow  mud  splash- 
ing the  horses  and  reaching  up  to  the  garments  of 
the  riders;  up-hill  and  downward  through  the  val- 
leys, past  stretches  of  woodland,  over  bridges  that 
resounded  to  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  past  the 
great  gap  and  the  mill  and  up,  up,  until  the  level  of 
the  plateau  was  reached  where  George's  farm  stretched 
its  fields  to  right  and  to  left  and  then  down  the  short 
stretch  of  road  that  led  to  his  gate. 

George  drew  his  rein  as  he  saw  the  gate  was 
closed,  but  his  companion  quickened  the  pace  of  her 
horse,  urging  him  forward.  George  cried  sharply  to 
her  to  stop.  But  before  his  voice  could  reach  her  she 
put  the  horse  at  the  low  stone-wall  that  lay  around 
the  wheat-field  by  the  gate,  and  the  beast  rose  to  leap 
it.  His  forefeet  cleared  the  wall,  but  he  was  not  a 
practiced  jumper,  and  one  of  the  hind  hoofs  catching 
in  the  coping  of  the  wall,  he  fell,  tumbling  Dolly 
Harley  over  to  the  side. 

In  a  moment  George  dismounted  and  climbed  the 
wall  to  reach  her.  He  lifted  her  to  her  feet  and 
looking  at  him  wildly  she  laughed  in  a  strange  way 
and  fell  fainting  into  his  arms.  He  resolved  at  once 
to  carry  her  to  the  house,  and,  neglecting  the  horses, 
he  held  her  fast  and  strode  forward.  Whether  she 
were  hurt  or  not  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  feared  for 
her.  He  looked  at  her  face,  colorless,  upturned  from 
his  arm.  It  seemed  very  lovely.  He  stooped  his 


The  Quakeress. 


head  and  kissed  her.  Before  he  came  to  the  house 
she  opened  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  He  could  not 
tell  if  she  knew  what  he  had  done. 

When  he  stepped  upon  his  porch  and,  despite  his 
burden,  tried  to  open  the  door  of  his  house,  she  had 
recovered. 

"Put  me  upon  the  chair,  please,"  she  said. 

"No,"  he  answered,  as  he  thrust  open  the  door 
and  went  in;  "thee  must  not  try  to  sit  up." 

He  placed  her  upon  the  sofa,  and,  rising,  said  : 

"I  will  call  one  of  my  servants." 

"You  need  not,"  she  said.  "I  am  not  hurt,  I 
think.  If  I  have  a  glass  of  water  I  shall  be  fully 
restored.  It  was  most  foolish  for  me  to  act  as  I  did." 

George  gave  water  to  her.  When  she  had  drank 
she  said  : 

"And  you  will  drive  me  to  Connock  now,  won't 
you?" 

There  was  something  in  her  manner  that  per- 
suaded him  she  knew  that  he  had  kissed  her.  While 
he  looked  at  her  the  color  surged  upon  her  face  and 
he  felt  his  own  cheeks  grow  hot. 

"I  thought,"  he  answered,  "perhaps  it  would  be 
better  if  I  should  send  for  thy  aunt  Ponder,  and  have 
her  stay  here  with  thee  for  the  night,  so  that  thee 
should  be  fully  restored." 

"You  are  very,  very  kind,  but  I  am  quite  strong 
enough  to  go  home,  and  I  think  it  will  be  better,  if 
I  shall  not  trouble  you  too  much." 

George  went  out  and  gave  the  order  for  the  car- 
riage to  be  made  ready.  When  he  returned  Dolly 
tried  to  rise  from  the  sofa. 


"lie  Other  Woman. 


191 


"You  see,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  quite  well  and 
strong." 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said  while  he  took  her  hand  to 
lift  her,  "that  thee  was  not  severely  hurt.  I  was 
frightened  when  thee  fell,  and  I  mourned  I  had  not 
counseled  thee  not  to  leap  the  wall." 

"I  yielded  to  a  sudden  impulse,"  she  answered, 
"and  I  did  not  reflect  that  I  might  bring  sorrow  to 
you  after  all  your  goodness  to  me." 

She  walked  about  the  room,  looking  at  the  quaint 
old-fashioned  furniture  and  then,  with  him  by  her 
side,  they  went  into  the  hall. 

"What  strange  eyes  that  man  in  the  picture  has," 
she  said,  when  she  had  glanced  at  the  portrait  of 
George  Fox.     "He  looks  as  if  he  had  seen  awful 
things.     He  might  have  been  in  hell  or  heaven.     I 
could  not  bear  to  have  him  stare  at  me  long." 
George  told  her  who  it  was: 
"Fox  was  always  as  incomprehensible  to  me  as  if 
he  belonged  to  another  world,"  she  answered. 

Then  the  carriage  came  and  George  put  her  into 
it  and  took  his  place  by  her  side. 

As  they  drove  slowly  down  the  hillside  in  the 
woods  and  then  entered  the  canyon  through  which 
George  had  come  in  the  darkness  the  night  before, 
he  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  kisses  he  had  given 
her  and  he  was  sure  she  thought  of  them. 

"And  what  does  she  think?"  he  asked  himself. 

He  could  not  guess,  but  he  knew  that  he  felt  as 

if  he  had  in  some  way  committed  himself  to  her  and 

that  she  might  fairly  demand  of  him  that  he  should 

speak  some  words  of  explanation.    She  seemed  more 


The  Quakeress. 


attractive  than  ever;  but  the  strong  impulse  he  felt  to 
declare  that  he  cared  seriously  for  her,  was  restrained 
by  his  judgment. 

"Let  us  look  at  it  when  the  spell  is  broken,"  he 
said  in  his  mind. 

In  truth,  after  what  had  passed,  she  half  expected 
that  he  would  speak  passionate  words  to  her,  and 
she  was  in  doubt  what  her  answer  would  be;  but  the 
sloping  street  of  Connock  was  reached  before  he 
made  any  utterance  of  importance.  And  so  presently 
they  came  near  to  the  parsonage;  and  then  she  said, 
with  tenderness  in  her  voice  and  very  softly : 

"How  can  I  thank  you  for  all  the  pleasure  you 
have  given  me  to-day?  And  I  may  see  you  once 
more  before  I  go  home,  may  I  not?" 

"When  does  thee  return?"  he  asked. 

"Day  after  to-morrow,"  she  said,  and  as  she  spoke 
both  of  them  saw  Abby  coming  from  her  front  gate, 
and  George's  answer  was  not  made  because  both  he 
and  Dolly  must  speak  with  her. 

When  George  had  helped  Dolly  to  alight,  he  stood 
with  her  for  a  moment  talking  with  the  Quakeress, 
and  then,  re-entering  the  carriage,  he  turned  to  go 
homeward.  That  moment  in  Abby's  presence  had  been 
for  him  a  moment  of  awakening. 


CHAPTER  X. 
Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home. 

WHEN  Abby  saw  Dolly  in  George's  company  and 
when  she  learned  of  the  ride  they  had  taken  together, 
it  was  almost  inevitable  that  she  should  wonder  if 
George,  disappointed  by  her  refusal  of  his  offer  of 
marriage,  could  have  had  thoughts  of  addressing 
himself  seriously  to  Dolly.  She  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  so  sane  and  sedate  a  man  should  have 
turned  to  another  woman  so  soon  after  his  protesta- 
tions of  love  for  his  old  friend;  but  she  confessed  to 
herself  that  she  knew  little  of  the  nature  of  men; 
and  she  was  quite  surprised  to  find  that  she  could 
consider,  absolutely  without  jealousy,  the  possibility 
that  George  would  make  the  Southern  girl  his  wife. 
Abby  did  have  a  suspicion  that  George  would  find 
Dolly  a  partner  who  would  not  readily  adjust  herself 
to  his  theories  of  life,  and  she  realized  that  it  would 
be  quite  as  hard  for  Dolly  to  become  a  Friend  as  it 
would  be  for  George  to  forsake  the  Friends'  Society; 
and  yet  it  was  clear  enough  that  he  could  not  marry 
her  while  she  remained  among  the  world's  people 
without  being  disowned  by  the  Society.  Looked  at 
in  any  way,  such  a  love-affair  seemed  to  be  involved 
in  deep  perplexity,  and  Abby  put  it  by  with  a  feel- 
ing of  relief  that  she  should  not  have  to  solve  the 
problem.  She  found  it  much  easier  and  more  agree- 
able to  permit  her  mind,  in  all  her  spare  moments, 

(193) 


The  Quakeress. 


to  dwell  upon  her  own  love  and  upon  the  bewilder- 
ing difficulties  of  her  own  situation. 

For  George  the  slow  journey  home  was  made  in 
company  of  thoughts  very  different  from  those  that 
had  distracted  him  when  he  traversed  the  same  road 
on  the  preceding  night.  A  complete  revulsion  of 
feeling  from  that  which  had  possessed  him  during 
the  day  set  in  as  he  drew  away  from  Dolly  and  the 
parsonage.  He  felt  himself  covered  by  the  stain  of 
sin.  There  came  to  him  a  phrase  he  had  seen  some- 
where and  had  retained  in  his  memory  of  "the  wild- 
flowing,  bottomless  sea  of  human  passion,  glorious 
in  auroral  light,  which,  alas,  may  become  infernal 
lightning."  He  saw  plainly  that  the  auroral  light 
shone  only  about  his  love  for  Abby,  and  that  the  true 
aspect  of  the  passion  that  had  swayed  him  that  day 
was  far  from  celestial. 

He  tried  to  justify  himself  to  his  conscience  by 
insisting  that  his  longing  desire  for  companionship  of 
woman  and  for  the  kind  of  solace  he  could  find  in 
her  sweet  sympathy  was  natural  and  the  gratification 
of  it  right;  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  himself 
respecting  the  things  that  had  happened  while  he 
and  Dolly  had  been  together.  If  he  had  truly  loved 
her  and  purposed  to  marry  her,  he  might  without 
offence  have  held  her  fast  in  the  meeting-house  and 
perhaps  kissed  her  passionately  while  he  carried  her, 
insensible,  to  the  house;  but  he  did  not  propose  to 
marry  her.  He  was  angry  with  himself  that  he  had 
ever  for  a  moment  thought  of  such  a  thing.  He 
knew  that  he  had  not  a  particle  of  true  love  for  her, 
and  that  both  their  lives  would  be  ruined  if  they 


Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home.    195 

should  permit  themselves  to  wed.  Under  such  con- 
ditions his  thought  and  his  conduct  with  respect  to 
her  had  been  completely  evil,  and  for  him  recogni- 
tion of  his  own  fault  meant  deep  repentance  and 
complete  banishment  of  the  matter  from  his  mind 
or  else  the  overthrow  of  the  spiritual  life  he  had 
struggled  so  hard  to  obtain. 

He  saw  plainly  that  he  could  not  preach  next  Sun- 
day, nor  probably  the  next.  He  could  never  preach 
again  until  his  soul  was  freed  completely  from  all 
the  stain  of  this  wickedness  and  from  every  impulse 
to  linger  pleasantly  with  the  memory  of  it.  Even 
now,  with  the  sense  of\his  wrong-doing  bearing  heav- 
ily upon  him,  and  with  disgust  for  himself  oppressing 
his  mind,  he  found  the  temptation  sometimes  almost 
irresistible  to  permit  his  imagination  to  dwell  with 
gratification  upon  the  incidents  of  which  he  repented. 
He  was  dismayed  to  discover  again,  as  he  had  done 
more  than  once  before,  that  sin  has  the  dreadful 
power  to  repeat  itself  indefinitely  and  infinitely 
through  the  mind;  so  that  the  final  curse  inflicted 
by  it  is  that  it  haunts  the  soul  and  shows  itself  in  al- 
luring forms  even  when  the  soul  would  cleave  closest 
to  holy  things. 

By  his  conduct  on  that  day  he  had  slipped  down- 
ward far  from  heights  that  he  had  striven,  with  pain- 
ful footsteps,  to  climb,  and  now  he  must  begin  over 
again  and  push  himself  upward  under  harder  condi- 
tions and  with  his  courage  diminished  by  his  fall.  He 
did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  he  should  address 
himself  strenuously  to  the  task;  and  for  a  beginning 
he  would  resolve  now  not  to  see  Dolly  Harley  again. 


The  Quakeress. 


He  had  not  responded  to  her  invitation  to  come  to 
the  parsonage  before  she  left  it,  and  he  would  not 
permit  her  again  to  exercise  upon  him  the  charm  of 
her  presence. 

"Bunyan  was  a  wise  man,"  he  said  to  himself,  "to 
resolve  that  he  would  never  even  touch  a  woman's 
hand  in  greeting  or  permit  himself  to  be  alone  with 
her." 

After  bidding  farewell  to  George,  Dolly  Harley 
went  into  the  parsonage  confident  that  he  would  re- 
turn to  her  before  she  left  Connock,  and  her  mind 
was  actively  engaged  in  an  effort  to  determine  in 
what  manner  she  should  deal  with  him  when  she 
should  see  him  again. 

Her  meditations  were  interrupted  by  Aunty  Pon- 
der, who  burned  with  eagerness  to  learn  something 
of  Dolly's  experiences  with  George  during  the  day. 

"You  found  him  an  agreeable  companion,  my 
dear,  didn't  you?"  said  Mrs.  Ponder  sitting  by  the 
window  sewing,  whilst  Dolly  lolled  in  an  easy  chair 
in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Very  agreeable,"  answered  Dolly. 

"He  is  quite  an  exceptional  man,  in  many  ways," 
said  her  aunt,  "and  but  for  his  erratic  religious  opin- 
ions he  would  be  a  most  desirable  husband  for  any 
good  woman.  He  is  handsome,  to  begin  with,  and 
then  he  is  rich.  I  don't  want  to  be  mercenary,  nor 
would  I  have  you  think  too  much  of  money,  but 
ministers'  wives  have  good  reason  for  knowing  the 
misery  of  not  having  enough.  Say  what  we  will 
about  wealth  being  dross,  when  rightly  used  it  is  a 
beneficent  instrument.  There  is  no  use  of  calling  a 


Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home. 


197 


thing  dross  and  pretending  to  scorn  it,  when  you 
want  forty  dollars  for  a  dress  and  can't  get  it." 

"You  needn't  fear  I  shall  despise  wealth,  aunty," 
said  Dolly. 

"No;  you  should  neither  despise  it  nor  covet  it. 
Anybody  who  wants  to  be  good  can  succeed  better 
with  some  money  than  without  it.  If  you  are  har- 
assed with  anxiety  about  meeting  your  bills  for  the 
necessaries  of  life  you  can't  fight  against  temptation 
to  wickedness  half  so  easily  as  if  your  mind  were  at 
ease  about  your  bread;  and  then  people  who  have 
money  to  spare  can  cultivate  generosity  and  helpful- 
ness for  others  in  a  manner  that  poor  people  find 
quite  impossible." 

"I  fully  agree  with  you,"  said  Dolly. 

"And  of  course  while  true  love  is  the  first  neces- 
sity of  marriage,  possession  of  wealth  by  one  of  the 
parties  is  an  added  joy.  You  know  very  well,  my 
dear,  that  you  can  have  no  very  large  expectations 
from  your  father.  If  the  Union  cause  succeeds  in 
this  dreadful  war,  the  value  of  his  slaves  will  simply 
disappear,  and  I  doubt  if  the  Sassafras  plantation  will 
be  worth  much.  There  can  be  no  harm,  therefore, 
for  you  to  consider  the  worldly  circumstances  of  any 
man  who  may  appear  to  find  you  attractive." 

Mrs.  Ponder  paused,  rather  hoping  Dolly  might 
supply  some  encouragement  to  her  hopes  respect- 
ing George;  but  Dolly  remained  silent  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  while  she  tapped  the  arm  of  her 
chair  with  the  ends  of  her  fingers. 

"I  have  always  thought,"  continued  Mrs.  Ponder, 
"that  George  would  marry  Abby;  but  maybe  there 


198  The  Quakeress. 

is  nothing  between  them  but  friendship.  I  wish  he 
would  fancy  you." 

"That  is  very  unlikely,  aunty." 

"The  only  possible  objection  to  him  would  be  that 
his  views  are  unsound,  but  no  doubt  you  might  in 
time  correct  them  and  bring  him  over.  He  would 
be  a  tower  of  strength  to  uncle  if  he  should  unite 
himself  with  the  church.  We  should  make  a  ves- 
tryman of  him  and  nobody  who  knows  him  could 
doubt  that  he  would  be  a  decided  improvement  of 
the  common  breed  of  vestrymen." 

"I  imagine  it  would  be  a  difficult  matter  to  turn 
him  from  the  Society  of  Friends,"  said  Dolly,  "and 
at  any  rate  I  am  hardly  qualified  for  the  task  and  not 
likely  to  undertake  it." 

"If  uncle  could  only  get  hold  of  his  mind!"  said 
Mrs.  Ponder,  whose  own  mind  at  that  moment  was 
more  engaged  with  George's  conversion  than  with 
Dolly's  matrimonial  prospects.  "No  man  was  ever 
more  happy  than  uncle  in  bringing  swift  conviction 
to  Quakers.  The  trouble  with  them  is  that  they  are 
not  properly  instructed  in  religious  truth.  Most  of 
them  know  literally  nothing  of  the  fathers  or  the 
great  heresies.  Did  he  talk  with  you  about  any 
of  these  things?  I  should  like  very  much  to  know 
the  ground  of  his  rejection  of  the  theory  of  Apos- 
tolical Succession.  I  hope  you  put  the  facts  at  him 
strongly." 

Dolly  smiled  as  her  mind  went  back  to  the  pas- 
sage with  George  in  the  meeting-house  and  to  his 
treatment  of  her  after  her  fall  from  the  horse. 

"The  topic  did  not  present  itself  for  discussion," 
she  said. 


Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home.    199 

"What  on  earth  did  you  talk  about  all  that  time, 
then?"  asked  Mrs.  Ponder.  "I  really  believe  he 
admires  you." 

"We  were  riding  swiftly  along  the  road  most  of 
the  time,"  answered  Dolly,  "and  discussion  of  Apos- 
tolical vSuccession  would  be  difficult  while  a  horse  is 
jolting  you." 

"Do  you  think,  then,  it  would  be  tactful  for  me 
to  send  him  uncle's  sermon  on  Churchmanship? 
Sometimes  the  arrow  of  Truth  pierces  a  man's  soul 
as  the  result  of  reading  a  single  logical  discourse." 

Dolly  discouraged  such  an  assault  upon  George. 

"The  best  thing  to  do,  aunty,"  she  said,  "if  you 
really  want  uncle  to  proselyte  him,  would  be  to  in- 
vite him  here  and  to  have  uncle  talk  with  him;  but 
how  would  you  feel  if  Mr.  Fotherly  should  turn  the 
tables  and  succeed  in  proselyting  uncle?" 

"That  would  be  surprising,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder, 
good-naturedly;  "and  about  as  likely  to  happen  as 
that  I  should  become  a  Mohammedan.  But  I  think 
perhaps,  my  child,  you  are  right.  It  will  be  wiser 
not  to  let  Mr.  Fotherly  know  that  we  have  designs 
upon  him.  There  is  an  element  of  contrariness  in 
human  nature  which  impels  a  person  strongly  to 
resist  that  which  he  ought  to  do  simply  because  some- 
body strongly  wishes  him  to  do  it.  I  have  often 
urged  uncle  to  take  this  into  account  in  dealing  with 
people,  particularly  with  our  Sunday  School  boys. 
No  mentally-sound  boy,  for  example,  cares  particu- 
larly to  fish  on  Sunday.  He  would  just  as  lief  fish 
on  Saturday.  But  as  soon  as  you  tell  him  it  is 
wicked  to  fish  on  Sunday,  his  whole  being  is  filled 


Tke  Quakeress. 


with  a  burning  desire  to  do  it.  I  have  had  the  same 
feeling  myself  sometimes.  You  know  I  never  had 
the  smallest  wish  to  touch  intoxicants,  but  I  have 
always  refused  to  join  our  Band  of  Hope  because  I 
am  sure  that  the  minute  I  sign  a  total  abstinence 
pledge  I  shall  have  a  maddening  thirst  for  drink." 

Dolly  said  she  fully  understood  the  feeling. 

"And  so,  sometimes,  uncle  and  I  have  really  con- 
sidered whether  perhaps  it  would  not  be  something 
of  a  gain  for  the  cause  of  morality  to  command  peo- 
ple to  do  the  things  that  are  wrong.  Of  course  in 
actual  practice  we  could  not  venture  quite  so  far,  but 
I  do  half  believe  that  if  it  were  made  a  positive  duty 
for  boys  to  fish  on  Sunday  and  it  were  wicked  for 
them  to  go  to  Church  and  Sunday  School,  all  the 
houses  of  worship  would  be  crowded  and  the  Sunday 
Schools  packed." 

Dolly  laughed  as  she  said: 

"And  isn't  it  queer,  aunty,  that  nearly  all  the  nice 
things  one  wants  to  do  should  be  wrong?" 

"Not  all,  my  child,  but  a  good  many  of  them,  and 
they  seem  nice  just  because  they  are  wrong.  Now, 
it  has  often  occurred  to  me  that  if  men  could  be  put 
under  a  solemn  moral  and  legal  obligation  to  do 
wrong,  why  then  wrong  would  appear  repulsive  and 
you  would  find  people  coming  over  in  droves  to  the 
side  of  righteousness.  But  of  course  I  know  very 
well  we  dare  not  try  any  such  experiment  with  so 
serious  a  matter.  As  for  Mr.  Fotherly,  if  I  could 
induce  him  to  consider  the  Church  favorably  by  hav- 
ing some  one  attack  it  in  a  severe  manner,  I  should 
hardly  like  to  employ  such  means.  If  you  can  obtain 


Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home.     201 

any  influence  over  him  you  will  have  to  exert  it  in 
your  own  way.  Love  can  do  much  to  sway  a  person's 
opinions." 

Dolly  ended  the  interview  with  her  aunt  by  going 
to  her  room  to  pack  her  trunk,  and  Mrs.  Ponder, 
left  alone,  mourned  that  she  had  learned  nothing  of 
the  incidents  of  the  ride  or  of  Dolly's  feeling  for 
George. 

Upon  the  next  day  Dolly  waited  through  the 
morning,  the  afternoon  and  the  evening  for  George 
to  come  to  take  leave  of  her,  and  she  would  have 
Leen  interested  to  know  that  George  through  all  the 
hours  had  to  struggle  with  himself  to  remain  away 
from  her. 

At  last  she  retired  for  the  night  with  a  faint  hope 
that  she  might  see  him  in  the  morning,  but  with  no 
little  vexation  and  anger  that  he  should  have  let  the 
day  go  by  without  responding  to  her  invitation. 

In  the  morning  she  went  over  to  the  grey  house 
to  take  leave  of  Abby  and  her  mother.  When  Abby 
met  her  at  the  door  Abby  had  a  half-read  letter  from 
Clayton  crushed  in  her  pocket.  She  had  kept  the 
secret  from  her  mother  and  she  had  no  purpose  to 
reveal  it  to  Dolly,  who  wondered  at  the  flush  upon 
the  face  of  the  Quaker  girl. 

"I  want  Abby  to  come  to  Sassafras  to  see  us  this 
very  Autumn,  Mrs.  Woolford,"  said  Dolly.  "You 
will  permit  her  to  come,  won't  you?"  and  Dolly  pro- 
ceeded with  enthusiasm  to  describe  the  attractions 
that  were  to  be  found  at  the  plantation. 

Mrs.  Woolford  showed  no  eagerness  to  accept  the 
invitation,  but  Dolly  was  urgent  and  Abby  said  she 


The  Quakeress. 


would  like  very,  very  much  to  go,  and  so  there  was 
a  promise  that  she  should  go  if  her  father's  permis- 
sion could  be  gained.  Then  Dolly  kissed  them  both 
good-bye  and  went  away.  As  her  train  swept  to- 
ward the  city  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  hills  on  top 
of  which  was  the  Fotherly  farm,  she  was  bitter  with 
anger  that  George  should  have  shunned  her  after  all 
that  had  passed  between  them.  He  had  wounded  her 
self-love,  and  that  is  an  affront  the  best  of  us  some- 
times find  it  hard  to  forgive. 

Mrs.  Ponder  would  have  been  lonely  in  the  even- 
ing of  the  day  of  parting  from  her  niece,  had  not 
Isaac  and  Rachel  Woolford,  with  Abby,  come  over 
to  the  parsonage  to  sit  an  hour  with  her  while  Dr. 
Ponder  attended  a  vestry-meeting  in  the  church; 
and  Mrs.  Ponder  strongly  improved  the  opportunity 
to  praise  both  Dolly  and  Clayton  and  to  speak  favor- 
ably of  Sassafras  plantation  and  of  the  life  there. 

Dr.  Ponder  came  upon  the  porch  to  greet  his 
guests  a  little  while  before  they  went  away.  He  tried 
to  be  cheerful,  but  Mrs.  Ponder,  with  a  loving  wife's 
quick  perceptions,  discerned  that  he  was  troubled. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Ponder  affection- 
ately when  the  visitors  were  gone  and  she  and  her 
husband  were  alone  in  the  darkness.  "Something  is 
depressing  you." 

"It  is  the  vestry-meeting,"  answered  the  doctor 
despondently. 

"Were  they  more  disagreeable  than  usual  ?" 

"Don't  let  us  speak  harshly  of  them,  wife.  No 
doubt  they  are  really  trying  to  do  their  duty  as  they 
see  it." 


Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home.    2°3 

Mrs.  Ponder  emitted  a  sound  significant  of  scorn- 
ful impatience. 

"As  they  see  it!  But  what  can  you  expect  from 
such  perceptive  powers  as  they  have!" 

"I  sometimes  think  perhaps  my  days  of  useful- 
ness are  ended,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  know  I  have 
tried  to  do  my  best,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  all  my  facul- 
ties in  good  order,  but  I  remember  that  men  deceive 
themselves  about  such  things." 

"Faculties !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ponder.  "You  have 
more  than  any  hundred  vestrymen  I  ever  knew,  and 
they  are  more  vigorous  and  useful  than  they  ever 
were.  Did  any  of  the  vestry  intimate  that  you  were 
failing?" 

"Not  exactly,  but  there  were  unkind  insinuations. 
I  was  asked  to  shorten  my  sermons." 

"It  is  positively  wicked !"  said  Mrs.  Ponder. 
"There  is  no  better  preaching  anywhere,  and  besides 
you  are  not  only  a  rector,  you  are  an  oracle,  and  no 
one  can  have  any  right  to  dictate  to  you  about  your 
sermons." 

"I  know  how  hard  it  is  rightly  to  divide  the  Word 
of  Truth,  but  surely  an  ordained  minister,  trained 
in  theology,  ought  not  to  be  controlled  in  such  a 
matter  by  uninstructed  laymen !" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Mr.  Duckett  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  he  ad- 
vocated brevity  because  my  discourses  are  so  full  of 
matter  that  he  can  hardly  digest  them;  but  I  fear  he 
was  only  trying  to  be  kind  and  to  comfort  me." 

"He  was  right  about  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Pon- 
der positively;  "he  indicated  very  accurately  his  own 
intellectual  limitations." 


The  Quakeress. 


"And  he  said,  besides,  that  as  my  friend  he  would 
counsel  me  to  preach  less  frequently  about  the  Seed 
of  Abraham,  and  to  dwell  more  on  love  and  less  on 
such  texts  as  that  of  last  Sunday  week,  'And  Mount 
Sinai  was  altogether  on  a  smoke.'  You  remember 
it?" 

"It  was  a  most  impressive  sermon;  full  of  warning 
for  vestrymen;  and  I  am  sure  you  do  preach  about 
love  very  often;  what  is  wanted  is  that  the  members 
of  the  vestry  shall  put  your  precepts  into  practice." 

"What  do  you  think  Alfred  Togg  proposed,  wife?" 

Mr.  Togg  was  the  accounting  warden  and  a  stock- 
broker, with  a  fondness  for  figures. 

"What?"  asked  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"He  suggested  that  a  sliding  scale  should  be  ap- 
plied to  my  sermons.  For  every  minute  that  I 
preach  over  twenty  minutes,  not  counting  the  text, 
a  cent  should  be  taken  off  my  salary.  For  every  min- 
ute less  than  twenty  minutes,  two  cents  should  be  added 
to  my  salary." 

"We  will  never  submit  to  such  a  degrading  propo- 
sition," said  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"He  also  urged  that  every  time  I  preached  an  old 
sermon  'in  the  raw,'  as  he  called  it,  ten  cents  addi- 
tional should  be  taken  off,  and  when  there  is  an  old 
sermon  partly  rewritten,  five  cents  should  be  de- 
ducted. Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  prepos- 
terous?" 

"Never!" 

"Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  I  had  preached  for 
thirty  minutes  twice  a  Sunday  fifty-two  times  a  year 
for  twenty  years,  and  that  made  1,040  hours,  I  think 


Dolly  Harley  Goes  Home.    2°s 

it  was  forty-three  and  one-third  days.  He  admitted 
that  the  preaching  had  been  faithful,  but  he  asked,  very 
insolently,  in  my  opinion,  if  I  didn't  think  some  con- 
sideration was  due  to  a  congregation  that  had  had  a 
month  and  a  half  of  straight  preaching.  My  self- 
respect  forbade  me  to  argue  with  him." 

"You  couldn't  do  it." 

"I  told  him  however  that  when  sermons  were 
longer  the  world  was  better,  and  then  Mr.  Latimer 
said  long  sermons  put  people  to  sleep,  and  he  often 
saw  them  sleeping  in  our  church,  and  I  said  the  fault 
was  with  the  bad  ventilation  and  not  with  the  ser- 
mons. Then  I  told  them  that  even  when  St.  Paul 
preached  persons  had  gone  to  sleep  in  church  and 
no  doubt  the  facts  about  Eutychus  had  been  re- 
corded in  the  Book  of  Acts  for  the  comfort  of  faithful 
ministers  and  the  confusion  of  ungenerous  vestry- 
men." 

"Eutychus  has  always  been  such  a  comfort  for 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder. 

"And  to  all  ministers.  So  I  offered  to  prove  that 
I  was  right  about  the  want  of  proper  ventilation  by 
preaching  in  the  open  air  on  the  lawn  next  Sunday 
and  if  anybody  went  to  sleep  to  offer  my  resignation ; 
but  they  declined  to  accept.  Mr.  Togg  then  asked 
me  how  it  would  do  for  me  to  trade  sermons  with 
the  Congregational  minister,  'barrel-for-barrel'  was 
the  way  he  put  it,  so  that  the  congregation  could 
have  some  new  views.  Imagine,  wife,  a  minister  of 
the  Apostolic  Church  preaching  sermons  written  for 
one  of  the  sects!" 

Dr.  Ponder  sighed  heavily.    "Perhaps  it  were  better 


The  Quakeress. 


if  I  were  dead,"  he  said.  "I  can't  resign,  for  we 
should  starve  to  death.  There  seems  to  be  no  place 
for  old  ministers.  I  can  only  say  that  I  have  tried 
always  to  be  faithful." 

"And  you  have  been,  birdie,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder, 
putting  her  arm  about  her  husband's  neck.  "You 
have  been  more  than  faithful.-  Don't  you  remember 
that  in  your  first  parish  Judge  Watson  said  he  never 
heard  a  man  whose  call  to  preach  was  clearer?" 

"And  I  never  preached  for  less  than  forty  min- 
utes there." 

"The  trouble  here  is  not  with  the  sermons,  but 
with  the  vestrymen.  If  the  church  did  its  duty  it 
would  start  a  movement  for  missions  for  the  con- 
version of  vestrymen  and  particularly  of  accounting 
wardens.  Alfred  Togg's  religion  is  hardly  rudimen- 
tary." 

"And  that  may  be  my  fault,  dear,  when  I  have 
preached  to  him  for  so  long  a  time.  Yet  I  have  often 
had  him  in  my  mind  when  preparing  my  sermons." 

"That  people  who  have  ears  do  not  hear  is  one  of 
the  oldest  of  experiences.  How  can  you  force  the 
truth  into  Alfred  Togg's  so-called  mind  when  he  is 
fast  asleep?" 

Mrs.  Ponder  had  an  impulse  to  speak  to  her  hus- 
band of  Dolly  and  George  Fotherly,  but  he  was 
fatigued  and  sad,  and  she  resolved  to  put  off  the  sub- 
ject till  another  time,  and  so  they  went  silently  into 
the  house,  which  seemed  cheerless  because  the  two 
young  people  had  left  it,  and  then  up-stairs  to  bed 
and  .to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XL 
The  Sassafras  Plantation. 

ON  the  next  First-day  morning  George  came  to 
the  grey  house  in  the  old  fashion  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed before  the  Southerners  appeared  and  brought 
trouble  to  him  and  to  Abby,  and  invited  her  to  go 
to  meeting  with  him.  She  had  wondered  if  he  would 
come,  and  in  her  heart  wished  he  would  not.  But 
she  could  not  refuse  to  accompany  him,  and  side  by 
side  they  drove  along  the  familiar  road,  both  feeling 
troubled  with  memories  of  the  youth  and  the  girl 
who  had  so  strangely  come  into  their  lives  and  then 
vanished.  George,  thinking  of  his  love  for  Abby, 
felt  that  he  had  not  been  faithful  to  her,  and  was  sore 
at  heart  with  the  reflection  that  his  faithlessness  to 
his  religious  profession  barred  him  that  day  from 
the  right  to  preach  the  gospel  of  purity  and  peace  to 
his  brethren.  Abby  had  some  little  pangs  of  pity  for 
the  man  whose  love  she  had  been  compelled  to 
refuse ;  but  her  mind  was  chiefly  occupied  by  thoughts 
of  Clayton.  She  had  received  several  letters  from 
him  and  had  written  to  him  clandestinely  more  than 
once.  She  bore  with  her  in  her  memory  the  passion- 
ate phrases  of  his  letters  and  in  the  silence  of  the 
meeting-house  she  found  sweetness  in  them  rather, 
than  in  the  worship  of  her  Maker. 

All  the  way  along  the  road  she  recalled  the  walks 
she  had  had  with  Clayton.  She  remembered  each 

(307) 


208  The  Quakeress. 

place  where  they  had  stopped,  and  what  he  said, 
and  the  very  tones  of  his  voice  came  back  to  her. 
She  talked  with  George  and  he  with  her,  but  with 
both  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  thought  of  the 
Marylanders,  and  when  George  had  helped  her  from 
his  carriage  at  the  gate,  upon  their  return  home,  he 
drove  away  across  the  river  feeling  that  the  episode 
had  been  painful  rather  than  pleasurable.  He  had 
the  heart-ache  as  he  reflected  upon  what  those  First- 
day  morning  drives  had  once  been  to  him  and  to 
Abby,  and  how  it  had  come  to  pass  that  the  joy  had 
gone  from  them.  He  doubted  if  he  ought  to  ask 
Abby  to  go  with  him  to  meeting  again,  and  yet  he 
perceived  that  if  he  should  change  his  practice  in 
that  respect  there  would  be  unpleasant  talk  that 
would  grieve  them  both.  He  reached  his  home 
heavy-laden  with  a  feeling  that  all  he  had  ever  cared 
for  had  slipped  from  his  grasp;  that  his  love  was  lost, 
his  religion  was  half  gone,  and  that  he  was  indeed 
the  very  chief  of  sinners. 

He  did  not  go  to  meeting  on  the  next  First-day, 
and  he  had  warned  Abby  that  he  should  not  go,  so 
she  too  remained  at  home,  rinding  compensation  in 
reading  and  re-reading  behind  the  locked  door  of 
her  chamber  Clayton's  letters  old  and  new.  Before 
another  week  had  passed,  Abby,  yielding  to  Dolly's 
written  entreaty,  had  gone  away  to  Maryland. 

The  Harley  plantation.  Sassafras,  lay  upon  the 
Sanaquan  River  not  far  from  Chesapeake  Bay,  on 
that  great  peninsula,  containing  the  finer  half  of 
Maryland,  which  thrusts  itself  downward  between 
the  mighty  bay  and  the  ocean  and  is  known  as  The 
Eastern  Shore. 


The  Sassafras  Plantation. 


209 


To  Abby  not  less  than  to  her  mother  the  journey 
thither  was  formidable.  The  young  Quakeress  must 
go  alone,  making  her  first  venture  far  from  home 
without  company  of  father  or  mother.  And  then  the 
journey's  ending  was  to  be  among  people  to  whom 
the  theories  and  practices  of  Friends  were  unknown. 
World's  people  they  were,  and  therefore  companions 
of  questionable  value  to  an  impressionable  girl; 
slave-holders,  also,  and  therefore  approvers  of  a 
system  against  which  Friends  had  borne  strong  and 
faithful  testimony.  Rachel  Woolford  had  forebod- 
ings of  the  visit.  To  her  it  was  like  sending  her  girl 
into  peril,  and  she  inclined  to  regret  that  she  had 
consented  to  Dolly's  request.  But  Abby's  joy  at  the 
prospect  of  going  was  so  great,  and  Dolly's  letters 
were  pleading  and  insistent,  and  Mrs.  Ponder  was 
reassuring,  and  so  Rachel,  looking  into  the  innocent 
face  of  her  daughter  and  remembering  the  training 
she  had  had,  considered  that  there  might  be,  after 
all,  small  danger.  George  had  doubts  and  fears  of 
which  he  said  nothing,  and  he  could  not  venture  to 
use  his  influence  with  the  parents  to  cross  Abby's 
desire;  so  he  wished  her  happiness  for  her  visit,  and 
promised  that  he  would  help  her  to  begin  the  jour- 
ney. 

He  went  with  her  one  sunny  afternoon  to  the  lit- 
tle steamer  that  lay  by  the  wharf  in  the  Delaware,  at 
Philadelphia,  and  found  her  cabin  for  her  and  cared 
for  her  baggage.  Then,  when  the  vessel  drew  into 
the  stream  she  responded  to  his  gestures  of  farewell 
and  to  his  pleasant  smile,  but  indeed  she  had  a  pang 
of  sorrow  for  him  as  she  perceived,  while  the  distance 

14 


210  TKe  Quakeress. 

between  them  was  increased,  that  part  of  the  joy  that 
thrilled  her  while  she  sped  away  was  born  of  con- 
sciousness that  to-morrow  she  should  meet  another 
man  towards  whom  her  soul  even  now  went  out  in 
longing. 

It  was  of  him  she  thought  chiefly  through  the 
hours  of  the  ending  day  while  the  boat  hastened 
down  the  broad  river,  past  Chester,  then  past  New 
Castle  between  the  lowlands  that  bank  the  stream. 
The  voyage  would  have  been  dull  but  for  these 
thoughts  and  for  the  expectant  curiosity  with  which 
she  awaited  that  vision  of  the  Southern  plantation 
life  of  which  she  had  heard  so  much. 

Night  had  come  when  the  boat  floated  into  the 
lock»at  Delaware  City  and  Abby  slept  while  the  ves- 
sel, without  perceptible  motion,  made  its  way 
through  the  canal.  In  the  morning  when  she  came 
upon  the  deck,  the  steamer  was  in  the  Chesapeake 
and  Abby  was  filled  with  delight  as  she  looked  upon 
the  great  expanse  of  water,  at  the  brilliant  eastern 
sky  and  smelled  the  cool  salt  air  that  came  up  the 
bay  from  the  southward. 

Then  the  boat  neared  a  wooded  shore  and  turned 
a  point  into  the  mouth  of  a  wide  estuary,  and  some 
one  said  to  her  that  this  was  the  Sanaquan;  not  a 
river,  though  little  streams  pour  into  it  from  end  to 
end  and  when  the  tide  has  ebbed  make  the  water 
almost  sweet;  but  rather  an  arm  of  the  Chesapeake, 
thrust  far  inland  among  the  fertile  fields  and  the 
great  trees.  Here  it  turns  into  a  little  bay  where  the 
tides  make  strong  eddies,  and  there  into  a  channel 
which  the  tributary  brooks  and  rivulets  have  cut 


The  Sassafras  Plantation. 


211 


through  the  sandy  soil  in  their  striving  to  come  with- 
in the  pulse-beat  of  the  ocean. 

For  the  sea,  two  hundred  miles  away,  sends  its 
throb  up  the  Sanaquan  far  among  the  plantations  and 
brings  with  it  salt-water  life  where  sea-breezes  never 
blow,  so  that  the  planter  who  may  pluck  from  his 
land  the  peaches  and  all  the  richest  fruits,  finds  in 
the  water  oysters  and  fish  and  other  sea-things  that 
the  dweller  by  the  great  fresh  water  rivers  must  go 
far  to  get.  It  is  a  region  where  land  and  water  are 
filled  with  fatness  for  the  eater  and  where  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  summer  sun,  tempered  by  the  nearness  of 
the  bay,  is  atoned  for  by  the  softness  of  winters  that 
hardly  know  the  bitter  cold  that  is  felt  north  of  the 
Maryland  line. 

As  the  boat  sped  up  the  stream  the  shores  came 
nearer,  and  one  after  another,  at  wide  intervals,  on 
both  sides  of  the  river,  Abby  saw  the  great  houses 
of  the  planters,  facing  the  water,  with  lawns  sloping 
downward  to  the  shore  and  with  the  whitewashed 
cabins  of  the  slaves  clustered  about  them.  She  won- 
dered which  of  them  was  Mr.  Harley's  or  if  either  of 
them  was  his  and  then  she  looked  about  her  at  the 
woods,  the  green  fields,  the  curious  little  branches 
of  the  stream  that  turned  in  here  and  there  among 
the  trees  and  ran  off  into  bends  and  curves  that 
seemed  to  hide  their  mysterious  enchantments;  at  the 
glorious  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  white  splendor  of  the 
water  about  her,  and  she  thought  even  the  hills  of 
Connock  not  more  beautiful.  « 

But  a  little  while  and  the  boat  drew  into  a  queer, 
old,  dilapidated  wooden  pier,  thrust  out  a  few  yards 


212  The  Quakeress. 


into  the  river  and  the  mate  called  aloud  the  name  of 
the  place  where  Abby  must  land.  When  she  had 
gathered  her  journey  things  she  looked  again.  Upon 
the  wharf  was  a  forlorn  shed  where  freight  was 
stored;  there  were  boxes  and  baskets  and  other  pack- 
ages waiting  for  the  boat  to  take  them;  six  or  eight 
white  men  stood  by  in  expectation;  black  men  and 
black  boys  in  tatters  lay  about  in  the  sun  half  indif- 
ferent to  the  coming  of  the  boat;  and  there  was  a 
great  double  carriage  and  a  woman  waving  her  hand- 
kerchief and  a  man  his  hat.  Her  heart-beat  quickened 
at  the  sight  of  the  figure  of  the  man.  She  knew 
that  it  was  Clayton,  and  Dolly  was  with  him  and  the 
boat  did  not  touch  the  corner  of  the  wharf  before 
Clayton  leaped  aboard  and  welcomed  her. 

When  she  was  in  the  carriage  and  Dolly  and  Clay- 
ton, with  beaming  eyes  and  with  tongues  that  gave 
her  small  chance  to  say  a  word,  showed  their  joy  that 
she  had  come  to  them,  the  few  misgivings  she  had 
had  were  gone.  It  seemed  foolish  to  have  been 
doubting  or  distrustful  and  her  own  warm  heart 
could  not  help  responding  to  the  eager  kindliness 
with  which  these  Southern  people  greeted  her.  It 
was  the  common  way  in  that  region.  The  world  has 
not  known  a  more  generous,  fervent,  considerate, 
full-souled  hospitality;  and  when  Abby  thought  of  it 
afterward,  in  her  communions  with  herself  in  her 
chamber  in  the  Harley  mansion,  she  believed  it 
might  be  no  better,  but  it  did  seem  almost  more 
charming  than  the  colder  kindliness  of  her  own  dear 
people. 

The  road  was  rough  and  muddy  and  the  jolting  of 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.      2I3 

the  carriage  was  severe  as  the  negro  driver  guided 
the  horses  along  the  way  that  ran  parallel  with  the 
river  upon  the  bank  high  above  it,  but  all  the  jour- 
ney was  full  of  laughter  and  of  bright  talk.  Soon 
the  carriage  turned  into  a  lane  lined  with  Lombardy 
poplars  and  then  into  a  great  wide  grassy  yard. 

"That  is  our  house,"  said  Dolly. 

It  faced  one  of  the  broad  inlets  from  the  river,  the 
north  gable  being  turned  toward  the  main  stream 
whereon  the  boat  had  come.  It  was  a  long  low  build- 
ing, white  rough-cast,  two  stories  high  with  a  steep 
roof,  and  having  in  front  a  portico  with  wooden  cyl- 
indrical columns  rising  to  the  eaves.  The  Southron 
of  those  days  always  carried  the  Greek  temple  in  his 
mind  when  he  fashioned  his  house.  It  was  large, 
roomy,  speaking  of  comfort  in  every  line  of  it;  with 
yellow  roses  growing  about  it  in  thickets  as  they 
never  will  grow  away  from  the  Southern  sun,  with 
all  kinds  of  lovely  flowers  strewn  here  and  there 
among  the  thick  untrimmed  grass ;  with  the  beauty 
of  profusion  and  of  carelessness. 

Of  carelessness  there  was  evidence  enough.  No 
Northern  man  of  good  income  would  have  had  the 
fences  near  his  house  half  in  wreck,  or  the  subaltern 
buildings  about  his  dwelling  so  full  of  strong  appeal 
for  repair.  And  no  Northern  men  could  have  had 
the  swarms  of  negroes  who  appeared  on  every  hand. 
Negro  men  and  boys  sat  upon  the  fence-tops  and 
hailed  the  carriage  as  it  came  by,  waving  their  hands 
and  their  head-coverings.  Negro  women  with  chil- 
dren in  their  arms,  negro  women  without  children, 
negro  boys  and  girls  from  toddling  infancy  to  vigorous 


The  Quakeress. 


youth  were  there  with  clothing  enough  half  to  hide 
their  dark  skins,  with  keen  delight  in  the  sunshine 
and  the  grass  and  with  strong  curiosity  to  see  the 
visitor. 

They  flocked  about  the  carriage  to  greet  her,  but, 
when  she  was  ready  to  descend,  a  stalwart  turbaned 
mulatto  woman  from  the  house  swept  them  aside 
with  one  thrust  of  her  arm  and  then  Penelope  appeared 
with  the  superior  authority  of  an  old  acquaintance 
of  Abby's  and  welcomed  her  as  soon  as  Walter  had 
helped  her  to  alight. 

Father  and  Mother  Harley  were  standing  bare- 
headed under  the  portico  with  smiling  faces,  and 
when  Mother  Harley  had  embraced  and  kissed  her 
and  Father  Harley  with  high  gracious  courtesy  had 
taken  her  hand,  Dolly  hurried  Abby  to  her  room  and 
to  Penelope  to  prepare  for  breakfast.  Then  Clay- 
ton, following  father  and  mother  into  the  house, 
flung  himself  upon  a  chair,  and  his  father,  glancing 
at  him  with  an  odd  look  said  to  the  mother: 

"She  far  surpasses  my  expectations." 

The  Sassafras  house  was  spacious  and  comforta- 
ble, but  much  wanting  in  those  convenient  arrange- 
ments which  make  life  easier  in  modern  houses. 
Upon  one  side  of  the  hall  there  was  a  parlor,  and 
behind  that  another  and  a  smaller  room  also  for  the 
entertainment  of  guests.  Across  the  hall  was  a  living 
room  and  beyond  it  a  library  where  the  master  had 
his  office  and  his  books.  The  back  door  of  the 
library  opened  into  a  large  dining-room,  rilled  with 
old  mahogany  and  lighted  by  huge  windows  at  either 
end.  The  kitchen  was  dissevered  from  the  house. 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.      3is 

excepting  that  a  covered  way  from  one  to  the  other 
was  provided  for  shelter  in  bad  weather. 

In  all  the  rooms  were  finely-carved  mantels  cover- 
ing wide  fire-places;  there  were  a  few  good  pictures 
upon  the  walls,  and  the  furniture  had  been  handsome. 
But  there  was  shabbiness  upon  it  and  slovenliness 
upon  everything.  The  wall-paper  was  dingy  with 
the  shadows  of  twenty  years;  the  carpets  long  ago 
had  lost  the  brightness  from  their  colors;  the  stuffs 
that  were  upon  the  chairs  and  the  sofa  were  faded 
and  sometimes  slit  and  torn;  papers  and  magazines 
were  piled  in  the  corners  upon  the  floor;  the  grey 
window  blinds  had  many  loose  and  dislocated  slats, 
and  the  paint  upon  the  woodwork  was  faded,  while 
it  had  wholly  disappeared  from  the  places  on  the 
doors  where  the  hands  of  the  members  of  the  house- 
hold touched  the  doors  to  shut  them. 

Mrs.  Harley  had  a  passion  for  cleanliness,  but  she 
found  herself  reluctant  to  disturb  the  old  familiar 
order  of  the  hangings  and  the  furniture  or  to  con- 
tend against  the  careless  habits  of  the  family  with 
respect  to  the  things  that  surrounded  them.  She 
liked  to  have  life  slip  along  easily  and  smoothly  and 
to  prefer  comfort  for  the  body  and  absence  of  fret- 
ting from  the  soul,  to  niceness  and  fastidiousness  for 
the  satisfaction  of  the  eye.  Really,  she  was  a  good 
housekeeper,  but  she  was  overweighted  by  her  ser- 
vants. She  had  twenty  black  people  in  the  dwell- 
ing, big  and  little,  to  do  her  bidding  and  as  many 
more  outside  eager  to  come  in  to  lend  a  hand.  But 
she  found  it  harder  to  have  a  single  task  done  so  well 
as  it  would  have  been  done  in  Mrs.  Ponder's  house, 


216  The  Quakeress. 

or  in  Rachel  Woolford's,  with  one  servant  for  all 
duties. 

In  truth,  Mrs.  Harley  expended  much  the  larger 
part  of  her  energy  in  promoting  the  interests  of  her 
black  dependents,  for  whom  she  did  more  than  any 
dozen  of  them  ever  did  for  her.  Every  garment  for 
the  women  and  the  children  of  the  blacks  in  the 
house  and  upon  the  plantation  was  cut  and  made 
under  her  direction  and  there  was  always  sickness 
in  the  cabins  calling  for  her  help,  and  no  call  from 
that  quarter  ever  came  to  her  without  bringing  a 
quick  and  sympathetic  response. 

Slavery  in  the  South,  repulsive  as  it  was  as  a  total 
fact  and  in  most  of  its  details,  was  not  without  some 
beautiful  features.  In  many  cases  the  owners  spent 
their  lives  in  sacrifice  and  devotion  to  the  blacks. 

Porter  Harley,  Clayton's  father,  was  a  planter  and 
an  important  man  in  his  county.  In  his  youth  he  had 
studied  law  without  any  purpose  to  practice  it.  Soon 
after  his  admission  to  the  bar  he  had  gone  to  Con- 
gress as  a  member  of  the  Whig  party  and  as  a  fol- 
lower and  fond  admirer  of  John  M.  Clayton,  the  Del- 
aware statesman.  He  was  a  protectionist  and  an 
ardent  disciple  of  Henry  Clay.  Having  served  two 
terms  in  the  national  House  of  Representatives,  he 
refused  to  accept  any  other  public  office,  but,  while 
retaining  a  keen  interest  in  politics,  and  always  doing 
a  share  of  the  campaign  work  in  his  State,  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  management  of  his  plantation,  to  his 
social  duties  and  to  desultory  study. 

When  the  secession  movement  began  he  regretted 
it,  but  considered  that  the  South  had  had  great 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.     217 

provocation  from  the  abolitionists  of  the  North,  and  as 
the  owner  of  more  than  a  hundred  slaves  he  could 
hardly  help  giving  his  sympathies  completely  to  the 
Southern  slave-owners.  He  became  a  member  of 
the  Democratic  party;  he  spoke  always  of  the  South- 
ern seceders  as  "my  people;"  he  regarded  President 
Lincoln  with  scorn  and  anger,  ashamed  that  a  man 
who  he  thought  had  no  claim  to  be  regarded  as  a 
gentleman  should  hold  the  high  office,  and  his  wrrath 
and  his  words  were  hot  against  Greeley  and  Garri- 
son and  Phillips  and  the  other  prominent  men  of  the 
North  who  denounced  human  slavery. 

Harley  was  a  man  of  some  learning,  of  high  bear- 
ing and  of  forceful  character.  He  knew  everybody 
of  importance  in  Washington;  he  was  influential  in 
his  own  county  and  he  would  have  been  rich  if  he 
had  been  less  lavish  in  his  methods  of  living  and 
more  careful  in  the  management  of  his  land.  Balti- 
more was  his  market.  There  he  sent,  by  the  bay 
steamers,  his  tobacco  and  peaches  and  sweet  pota- 
toes and  corn  and  wheat;  there  he  bought  his  sup- 
plies, and  there  he  had  hundreds  of  acquaintances 
whom  he  visited,  as  they  and  their  families  visited 
him. 

The  Harleys  were  Episcopalians  and  every  Sunday 
they  went  to  worship  in  a  rude  brick  building,  two 
hundred  years  old,  standing  miles  away  from  any 
town  in  a  grove  of  mighty  oaks  older  than  the 
church.  Here,  in  an  uncomfortable,  unattractive 
room,  with  rough,  unpainted  pews,  in  each  of  which 
stood  a  spittoon,  the  planters  were  ministered  to  by 
a  clergyman  whose  salary  was  much  too  small  for 


218  The  Quakeress. 

his  maintenance;  even  if  it  had  not  been  always  in 
arrears.  He  was  kept  alive,  upon  a  pauper  basis,  by 
gifts  of  salt  meat  and  garden-stuff  from  his  wealthy 
parishioners,  who  had  equipped  him  for  the  task  of 
visiting  the  widely-scattered  members  of  his  flock  by 
giving  him  a  torpid  horse  and  an  ancient  and  bat- 
tered carriage. 

The  glory  of  the  parish  was  a  weighty  but  unor- 
namental  communion  service  which  had  been  given 
to  the  church  by  Queen  Anne.  If  we  can  believe 
common  report,  that  rather  stupid  but  not  unlovely 
sovereign  must  have  expended  no  small  part  of  her 
income  in  scattering  silver  communion  vessels  up 
and  down  the  Maryland  and  Delaware  peninsula 
among  the  churches. 

The  Harleys  were  almost  as  stiff  church  people 
as  Mrs.  Harley's  sister,  Mrs.  Ponder;  but  Abby,  dis- 
posed though  she  was  to  extreme  charitableness, 
could  not  avoid  the  reflection  that  intense  enthusi- 
asm for  the  church  and  its  services  appeared  to  be 
consistent  with  complete  absence  of  the  spiritual  uplift 
which  she  was  familiar  with  among  the  Quakers. 

When  Abby  had  made  herself  ready  for  the  late 
breakfast  Dolly  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase 
and  together  they  went  into  the  library,  where  the 
white  and  black  members  of  the  household  were 
assembled  for  family  prayer.  At  one  end  of  the  room 
sat  Mrs.  Harley  and  Dolly,  who  were  joined  by  Clay- 
ton after  Abby  had  appeared.  At  the  other  end  of 
the  room  stood  twenty  or  more  negroes,  most  of 
them  women  and  girls.  They  were  huddled  together 
in  the  corners  and  by  the  doors  and  they  whispered 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.     219 

and  grinned  while  the  master  entered  and  took  his 
seat  in  the  great  arm-chair  by  the  library  table. 

When  he  had  found  the  places  in  the  prayer  book 
he  inserted  his  thumb  and  a  finger  among  the  leaves 
and  looked  at  the  colored  worshipers. 

"Emeline!"  he  said,  addressing  one  of  them, "stop 
grinning  and  look  sober.  This  is  not  a  merry-mak- 
ing. Tilly!  keep  your  hands  and  your  toes  still. 
Letitia!  how  many  times  have  I  told  you  not  to  come 
to  prayers  without  a  handkerchief  about  your  head? 
Joe!  stand  over  there  by  the  bookcase,  where  you 
wiU  be  by  yourself,  and  learn  how  to  behave  when 
you  come  into  this  room." 

Then,  looking  over  the  whole  group  again  to  see 
that  there  was  perfect  order,  Mr.  Harley  began  to 
read  part  of  the  psalter  for  the  day  in  precisely  the 
same  tone  he  had  used  in  scolding  his  slaves.  Then 
the  white  people  kneeled  down,  the  blacks  still  stand- 
ing, and  without  change  of  tone  Mr.  Harley  read  a 
part  of  "the  order  for  Morning  Prayer  to  be  used  in 
families." 

The  final  Amen  having  been  said,  he  arose  and 
turning  to  the  black  folks,  he  said,  just  as  if  he  were 
still  presenting  prayer: 

"Penelope !  if  you  whisper  again  during  worship 
I  will  have  you  trounced  !" 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Harley,  as  the 
white  people  moved  toward  the  dining  room,  "that 
we  not  only  care  for  the  bodies,  but  for  the  souls  of 
these  black  folks.  I  say  souls,  for  they  have  souls,  I 
suppose;  a  kind  of  souls,  we  might  perhaps  call  them; 
rudimentary  souls,  it  may  be;  or,  if  we  accept,  as  I 


220  The  Quakeress. 

think  we  must,  the  theory  of  the  descent  from  Ham, 
and  consequently  from  Noah,  we  might  rather  say 
deteriorated  souls — souls  that  have  shriveled  and 
shrunk  until  they  are  hardly  souls  at  all.  Have  you 
noticed  the  negro  heel?  Why,  my  dear,  it  is  project- 
ing, it  protrudes,  and  the  protruding  heel  is  always 
the  sign  and  token  of  the  presence  of  the  lower 
nature." 

Mrs.  Harley  reminded  Abby  strongly  of  Mrs.  Pon- 
der. 

When  the  family  was  seated  at  the  table,  and  the 
blessing  had  been  asked  by  Mr.  Harley,  Mrs.  Har- 
ley, with  her  hand  on  the  spigot  of  the  coffee  urn, 
and  while  she  dispensed  the  coffee,  continued  to  give 
Abby  information  about  the  black  people. 

"The  truth  is,  my  child,  that  the  life  of  the  African 
upon  one  of  our  plantations  is  idyllic.  There  is  no 
real  enslavement,  as  Northern  people  think.  The 
negroes  are  held  in  silken  bonds  to  a  happy  pastoral 
life  nearly  all  of  which  is  sunshine.  When  you  con- 
sider that,  according  to  the  testimony  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, they  are  under  a  curse,  it  is  perhaps  not 
entirely  right  to  treat  them  so  well ;  but  we  can  hardly 
be  expected  I  suppose  to  suppress  the  better  im- 
pulses of  our  nature;  and  so,  in  spite  of  the  guilt  of 
their  unnatural  ancestor,  we,  having  culled  them 
from  barbarism,  plant  them  in  the  midst  of  our  high 
civilization  and  lavish  kindness  upon  them.  They 
return  it  with  affection.  Offer  to  any  of  our  negroes 
freedom,  and  they  would  scorn  it  and  all  its  obliga- 
tions and  hardships." 

To  Abby  these  were  new  aspects  of  the  slavery 


The  Sassafras  Plantation. 


221 


question  and  they  interested  her,  even  if  Mrs.  Har- 
ley's  theories  could  not  have  prompt  acceptance  from 
her  mind. 

In  the  dining  room  the  Quakeress  was  introduced 
to  another  guest,  Dr.  Ramsey,  concerning  whose  rela- 
tions with  the  family  she  was  long  in  doubt.  They 
called  him  "Cousin  Tom,"  and  Dolly  hinted  that  he 
was  a  distant  cousin  of  her  mother's. 

Cousin  Tom  appeared  to  make  a  point  of  never 
appearing  at  family  prayers. 

The  table  was  supplied  by  a  quantity  and  variety 
ot  food  such  as  the  Quaker  girl  had  never  before 
known  as  material  for  a  single  meal.  There  were  six 
kinds  of  hot  bread,  including  corn-pone  and  Mary- 
land biscuits,  and,  besides  ham  and  beef  steaks  and 
eggs  in  several  attractive  forms,  there  were  fried  and 
stewed  oysters  and  white  perch  with  four  or  five  fresh 
fruits,  and  for  drinks,  coffee,  tea,  cocoa  and  milk. 
Abby  guessed  that  her  family  at  home  could  have 
lived  comfortably  for  a  week  upon  the  breakfast 
spread  before  the  Harleys. 

There  were  three  negro  waitresses  to  care  for  the 
guests  and  with  these  servants  four  negro  girls,  wear- 
ing loose  slips  of  blue  denim  and  with  bare  feet, 
walked  about  the  table  driving  away  flies  with  huge 
fans  made  from  peacock  tails. 

The  meal  had  not  begun  when  a  negro  man  came 
into  the  room  and  whispered  to  the  master  that  the 
"boys"  in  the  harvest  field  (meaning  the  workmen) 
had  no  whiskey;  whereupon  Mr.  Harley,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  had  been  discovered  in  a  fault,  rose 
quickly  from  his  chair,  unlocked  the  sideboard  and 


The  Quakeress. 


handed  a  demijohn  to  the  black  man.  Abby  had 
indeed  come  into  a  strange  country  for  a  member  of 
Plymouth  Meeting. 

For  her  there  were  many  questions  about  her 
journey,  and  many  more  about  Mrs.  Ponder  and  the 
doctor,  and  then  the  talk  turned  upon  the  pleasures 
that  were  in  store  for  her  upon  the  Sassafras  planta- 
tion and  in  the  region  round  about.  It  was  hard  to 
keep  slavery  out  of  the  conversation,  but  harder  still 
for  the  Harleys  to  restrain  their  talk  about  the  war, 
the  one  theme  that  engaged  the  attention  of  every- 
body at  that  time.  The  Harleys  were  jubilant  over 
the  Battle  of  Bull  Run,  fought  in  July,  and  they  en- 
tertained no  doubt  of  victory  for  the  Confederates  in 
every  battle  yet  to  come.  They  did  not  say  so  plainly 
to  the  Quakeress,  but  no  attempt  was  made  to  dis- 
guise the  fact  that  in  the  county  in  which  Sassafras 
stood  bands  of  young  men  were  riding  about  menac- 
ing anti-slavery  men  with  destruction  of  their  prop- 
erty unless  they  should  move  away.  Tolerance  was 
not  the  practice  in  any  part  of  the  South  before  the 
war  began,  and  now,  with  passion  highly  inflamed  by 
the  conflict,  the  pro-slavery  people  in  the  slave  States 
remaining  in  the  Union  would  not  suffer  any  man 
to  live  in  peace  unless  in  his  secret  thought  he  gave 
approval  to  human  slavery. 

The  beliefs,  the  practices,  the  bitternesses,  the  sen- 
timents of  these  Southern  people  were  so  different 
from  anything  the  Quakeress  had  ever  encountered 
that  she  felt  as  if  the  Harleys  belonged  to  another 
race  than  hers  and  breathed  a  strange  atmosphere. 
With  her  narrow  experience  of  life,  confined  to 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.     223 

social  conditions  in  which  opinion  was  untrameled, 
in  which  human  liberty  was  sacred  and  precious,  and 
in  which  violence  of  speech  and  action  were  wholly 
unknown  to  respectable  people,  the  social  order 
that  permitted  a  man's  beliefs  to  become  an  excuse 
for  plundering  his  home,  maiming  his  body  and 
forcing  him  into  exile  seemed  shocking  when  she 
considered  it. 

But  she  did  not  consider  it  very  closely.  The  host 
and  the  hostess  tried  to  repress  all  that  they  guessed 
would  be  unpleasant  for  her,  and  they  treated  her 
with  affectionate  courtesy  so  persistent  and  gracious 
that  she  could  not  help  admiring  and  loving  them. 

The  breakfast  was  prolonged  far  into  the  morning. 
Nobody  at  Sassafras  was  ever  in  a  hurry.  Nobody 
but  Mrs.  Harley  and  some  of  the  black  people  had 
anything  to  do,  and  even  their  tasks  might  be  done 
leisurely.  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  before  the 
family  left  the  dining  room.  Lunch  was  announced 
for  one  o'clock,  but  Abby  felt  that  she  should  not 
wish  for  food  again  until  very  late  in  the  day.  She 
went  with  the  other  folks  into  the  library,  whence, 
presently,  Clayton  took  her  out  to  show  her  the 
house,  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  and  to  find  an 
opportunity  to  speak  with  her  alone  a  word  of  welcome 
and  of  delight. 

Then  with  Dolly  and  Dr.  Ramsey  they  walked 
over  the  lovely  lawn  that  sloped  downward  to  the 
water  a  hundred  yards  from  the  house  until  they 
came  to  a  boat-house  and  a  pier  that  pushed  itself 
out  upon  the  stream.  A  dozen  tattered  black  boys 
and  girls  followed  them,  and  behind  them  walked 


224  The  Quakeress. 

Clayton's  body  servant,  Joe,  and  another  well-grown 
colored  boy.  These  proceeded  to  bring  out  the  boat, 
and  to  hoist  the  sail,  and  when  the  four  white  people 
had  placed  themselves  comfortably  in  the  vessel,  the 
two  negroes,  one  at  the  bow  and  the  other  at  the 
tiller,  undertook  to  manage  it. 

The  breeze  was  fair,  the  sky  was  unclouded,  and 
Abby  was  filled  with  delight  as  the  little  craft  rushed 
out  from  the  inlet  to  the  wider  river  and  then,  tak- 
ing in  reverse  the  route  over  which  she  had  come 
in  the  morning  in  the  steamer,  plunged  forward 
toward  the  great  bay  and  out  among  the  white  caps 
that  foamed  upon  its  surface. 

It  was  the  first  experience  of  the  Connock  lass  in 
a  sail  boat,  and  with  no  qualms  of  sea  sickness 
affecting  her,  she  found  herself  rejoicing  as  the  boat 
raised  itself  before  the  advancing  waves,  and  then, 
dipping  its  prow,  forced  itself  merrily  through  them. 

It  was  a  large  part  of  her  pleasure  that  Clayton  sat 
beside  her  and  talked  with  her  about  herself,  and 
about  the  scenery  and  the  sailing  and  told  her  of  the 
fine  times  she  should  have  with  them  while  she  tar- 
ried at  Sassafras.  She  was  much  absorbed  by  Clay- 
ton and  by  the  voyage,  but  not  so  completely  as  to 
fail  to  observe  that  Dolly  and  Dr.  Ramsey  were  find- 
ing much  satisfaction  in  each  other's  company.  Before 
Abby  had  been  many  days  at  Sassafras  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  that  the  doctor  intended  to  make  Dolly 
his  wife. 

When  the  boat  had  raced  down  the  bay  for  an 
hour  Clayton  ordered  that  it  should  be  put  about 
and  presently  it  neared  the  shore  at  a  point  where 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.      22s 

a  low  promontory  rose  from  the  water,  and  here,  at 
Parker's  Bluff,  as  it  was  called,  the  boat  ran  into  a 
cove  where  was  a  sandy  beach,  and  Clayton  and  Abby 
got  out,  Dolly  and  the  doctor  remaining  in  the  craft, 
which  turned  and  began  to  tack  upon  the  homeward 
route. 

Clayton  and  his  companion  climbed  to  the  summit 
of  the  bluff  and  watched  the  little  vessel  as  it  moved 
to  and  fro  upon  the  water. 

The  place  to  which  they  had  come  was  beautiful, 
and  if  Abby  could  not  have  remembered  it  because 
of  this  visit  in  company  with  Clayton,  she  would  still 
have  had  an  indelible  impression  of  its  features  printed 
upon  her  mind  by  an  incident  which  should  bring  her 
there  again  under  tragic  circumstances. 

Now,  when  she  looked  about  her,  she  saw  a  wide 
expanse  of  greensward,  with  here  and  there  a  great 
tree  rising  from  it,  while  further  inland  a  wood  hav- 
ing a  nearly  impossible  tangle  of  undergrowth 
stretched  between  the  grassy  plateau  and  the  road 
that  led  to  Sassafras  on  the  one  hand  and  to  the 
county  town  on  the  other. 

"This  is  a  famous  picnic  ground,"  said  Clayton, 
as  he  turned  away  from  the  river  with  Abby,  "and 
we  will  have  a  picnic  here  some  day  while  you  are 
with  us.  But  now  let  us  stroll  homeward." 

They  walked  together  slowly  upon  the  grass  by 
the  edge  of  the  bluff  that  pushed  itself  out  into  the 
wind-swept  water;  and  thence  by  a  path  through  the 
thicket  in  the  wood,  coming  out  upon  a  sandy  road 
traversing  the  flat  country,  and  bordered  by  hedges 
beneath  which  the  grass  was  starred  with  wild  flowers. 

IS 


226  The  Quakeress. 

Here  and  there  through  the  clumps  of  trees  at  intervals 
were  glimpses  of  the  bay  and  then  of  the  river  and 
the  inlet  that  fronted  Sassafras. 

The  talk  of  the  man  and  the  woman,  from  the 
beginning  of  the  walk,  was  of  themselves. 

"I  longed  for  you  to  come  to  our  home  in  response 
to  Dolly's  invitation,"  said  Clayton,  "but  I  hardly 
dared  hope  for  it." 

"Thee  knows  well  how  eager  I  was  to  visit  thy 
parents  and  thy  sister  and  thee;  but  thee  also  knows 
— thee  and  I  alone  know — that  I  had  no  right  to 
come  here." 

"I  have  no  such  knowledge!"  said  Clayton  strongly. 
"It  is  absolutely  right  for  you  to  be  with  us." 

"Then  why,"  asked  Abby,  "did  thee  not  dare  to 
hope  that  I  would  come?"" 

"I  feared  you  would  think  it  wrong  when  it  is  not 
wrong;  that  you  would  consider  the  unhappy  condi- 
tions of  which  I  am  the  innocent  victim  a  sufficient 
reason  for  not  seeing  me.  It  would  be  cruel  and 
unjust  to  have  it  so.  You  have  been  most  generous 
and  kind  to  me  in  disregarding  them." 

"But,  Clayton,  we  cannot  disregard  them.  That 
thee  has  a  wife  is  a  fact  that  bars  me  from  thee  no 
matter  what  we  think  about  it." 

"It  will  not  do  so  always." 

"Yes,"  said  Abby,  "it  will." 

"You  love  me  dearly  still,  I  know,"  said  Clayton. 
"It  is  the  only  joy  of  my  life  to  be  sure  of  that." 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  murmured  Abby  with  her  eyes 
downcast,  "but  it  is  an  offence  against  God." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Clayton.     "It  is  God's  own  gift 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.      227 

to  both  of  us.  There  can  be  no  true  marriage  with- 
out true  love.  I  have  none  for  that  horrid  woman; 
I  never  had  any;  I  was,  as  I  told  you,  ensnared.  You 
are  the  first  woman  I  ever  loved,  and  that  love  you 
completely  return.  It  is  divine  and  holy;  you  are 
in  the  highest  and  best  sense  my  wife  now — my  celes- 
tial wife." 

Abby  did  not  think,  she  could  not  even  have 
guessed,  how  many  times  that  proposition,  reeking 
with  evil,  had  been  presented  by  reckless  lovers; 
but  it  brought  no  illusion  to  her.  She  answered 
simply : 

"I  am  not  thy  wife.    I  will  never  be  thy  wife." 

"Why,  Abby,"  said  Clayton  with  a  bit  of  fear  in 
his  heart,  and  looking  at  her  with  open  eyes.  "You 
must  not  say  such  things  as  that.  If  we  live  and  you 
love  me  always,  our  marriage  is  certain;  and  we  are 
both  very  young." 

"I  fear  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  very  end,"  said 
Abby,  "but—" 

"You  don't  fear  it?" 

"Yes,  I  fear  it,  and  because  I  know  that  whether 
life  be  long  or  short,  there  will  be  no  peace  for  me, 
because  'there  is  no  peace,  saith  my  God,  for  the 
wicked,'  and  we  are  wicked  when  we  talk  of  love 
while  thee  owes  to  thy  wife  all  that  thee  has." 

"I  owe  her  nothing  but  hatred  and  disgust!  I  am 
compelled  to  acknowledge  the  bond,  but  it  is  slav- 
ery. It  will  be  broken  some  day,  and  then  we  shall 
find  peace." 

"I  say  to  thee,  dear  Clayton,  that  thee  deceives 
thyself.  I  will  never  marry  thee." 


228  The  Quakeress. 

"Nonsense,  Abby!  Why  do  you  speak  in  that 
positive  way?  It  is  most  unreasonable." 

"Clayton,  'does  thee  remember  ? — I  know  it  is  fool- 
ish to  dwell  upon  a  matter  that  seems  so  idle — does 
thee  remember  the  gipsy  woman  who  pretended  to 
tell  thy  fortune  and  mine  one  day  at  Spring  Mill?" 

"It  is  not  possible,  Abby  dear,  that  you  attach  any 
importance  to  what  that  vagabond  creature  said? 
What  did  she  say  to  you?" 

Abby  hesitated  a  moment.  Then,  as  if  it  were 
very  hard  to  speak  the  words : 

"That  I  should  die  from  a  broken  heart." 

Clayton  laughed,  but  not  with  usual  heartiness. 
"How  can  you  dwell  upon  that  woman's  words,  my 
dear  girl?  It  is  impossible  that  you  can  believe 
Heaven  has  given  to  such  a  wretch  the  gift  of  proph- 
ecy!" 

"Yes,  but  Clayton,  I  have  the  prophecy  in  my  own 
soul.  When  she  said  it  I  felt  that  she  was  speaking 
the  truth,  even  while  no  one  could  have  less  faith 
than  I  have  in  her  power  to  read  the  future.  I  know 
not  how  she  could  make  such  a  guess,  but  I  can  per- 
ceive plainly  how  the  prediction  may  be  fulfilled." 

"You  mean,"  said  Clayton  solemnly,  for  he  recalled 
the  words  the  woman  had  said  to  him,  "that  such 
anguish  will  come  to  you  through  me?" 

"Alas,  dear  Clayton,"  she  answered  sadly,  "Has 
it  not  already  come?  What  is  strong  love  but  bitter 
pain  when  separation  is  the  only  possibility?" 

"Come,  dearest,  let  us  look  more  cheerfully  at  the 
matter,"  said  Clayton,  and  he  took  her  hand  and 
would  have  put  his  arm  about  her,  to  embrace  and 
kiss  her.  But  she  restrained  him. 


The  Sassafras  Plantation.      329 

"I  think  thee  must  not  do  that  any  more,  dear 
Clayton.  Forgive  me  for  saying  that  to  thee.  The 
touch  of  thy  hand  is  precious  to  me,  but  I  will  sin 
more  deeply  if  with  the  love  I  should  not  take  from 
thee  I  accept  the  caress  thee  cannot  rightly  give  me." 

"I  will  respect  your  wish,"  he  said  mournfully, 
"but  at  least  I  may  hold  your  hand  while  we  walk 
homeward  and  no  one  is  near." 

She  did  not  resist  him,  and  so,  without  many  more 
words,  they  came  at  last  to  the  end  of  the  lane  that 
ran  from  the  high  road  to  Mr.  Harley's  house. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
Days  at  Sassafras. 

THE  young  people  from  the  neighboring  planta- 
tions came  in  large  numbers  to  call  upon  Dolly's 
guest  during  the  next  few  days.  The  girls  and  the 
men  were  always  on  horseback  and  Abby,  who  had 
never  learned  to  ride,  marveled  at  the  grace  and  ease 
with  which  the  girls  managed  their  spirited  horses. 
She  thought  all  the  girls  charming  and  many  of  them 
were  beautiful.  They  were  so  warm  and  frank  and 
cheery  in  their  manner  toward  her  that  she  could  not 
help  liking  them  very  much,  although  they  were  so 
different  from  any  girls  she  had  ever  known;  and  for 
their  part,  if  they  had  not  been  impelled  to  look  upon 
her  with  favor  because  she  was  Dolly's  friend,  her 
fair  countenance,  soft  sweet  voice  and  modest  quiet 
manner,  not  less  than  the  quaintness  of  her  grey 
dress  with  the  white  handkerchief  crossed  upon  her 
breast,  would  have  won  them  instantly. 

The  visitors  talked  so  much  and  so  rapidly  that 
Abby  had  little  chance  to  try  her  power  as  an  enter- 
tainer and  the  talk  was  nearly  always  conducted  with 
skilful  avoidance  of  dangerous  topics.  But  chatter- 
ing girls  whose  minds  are  tense  with  interest  in  a 
single  subject  cannot  always  guide  their  tongues 
away  from  it,  and  so  Abby  was  not  long  in  learning 
that  every  one  of  the  girl  visitors  was  a  Secessionist 
whose  enthusiasm  for  the  Southern  cause  was  only 

(230) 


Days  at  Sassafras.  231 

surpassed  in  intensity  by  the  fury  of  her  hatred  of 
the  North  and  the  abolitionists.  The  young  men 
were  bitter  in  their  feeling  against  "the  invaders," 
as  the  Northern  armies  were  called,  but  the  malig- 
nancy and  venom  of  the  women  much  surpassed 
those  of  the  men.  But  the  Quaker  girl  knew  how  to 
maintain  silence  when  there  was  likely  to  be  strife 
of  tongues,  and  if  she  had  a  disposition  to  feel 
uncomfortable  among  these  people  whose  principles 
were  hostile  to  her  own  serious  beliefs,  it  was  com- 
pletely smothered  by  the  kindness  poured  out  upon 
her  by  the  Harleys  and  their  friends.  And  then, 
Clayton  was  always  near  to  her.  That  would  fully 
compensate  for  all  that  was  distasteful  to  her,  and 
even  while  her  conscience  troubled  her  at  the 
thought  of  her  love  for  him  she  exulted  in  that  love 
and  found  in  his  company  an  intensity  of  sweetness 
which,  for  some  strange  reason,  forbidden  things 
commonly  have. 

All  sorts  of  invitations  were  given  to  her  by  the 
visitors  and  many  pleasures  were  devised  for  her  by 
her  hosts,  and  she  was  not  unwilling  to  taste  the  de- 
lights thus  presented  to  her  so  far  as  she  could  conve- 
niently do  so. 

Before  she  went  to  see  any  of  the  near  plantations 
the  Harleys  wished  that  she  should  examine  their 
own.  So  one  morning  she  went  with  Mrs.  Harley 
and  Clayton  and  Dolly  to  the  negro  quarters,  where 
each  cabin  was  visited.  Mrs.  Harley  seemed  particu- 
larly anxious  that  Abby  should  believe  the  negroes 
perfectly  happy  and  contented  and  the  owners  of 
them  devoted  to  the  promotion  of  their  temporal  and 


232  The  Quakeress. 

spiritual  welfare;  and  Abby  was  forced  to  confess 
that  the  little  homes  were  fairly  equal  to  the  require- 
ments of  humble  people,  and  that  the  blacks  showed 
no  sign  of  discontent. 

"Put  yourself  in  the  negro's  place,"  said  Mrs.  Har- 
ley  to  the  Quaker  girl,  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
great  house.  "Which  would  you  prefer :  to  be  a 
repulsive  savage,  with  little  or  no  clothing,  bounding 
about  in  your  native  forests  like  the  beasts  that  per- 
ish, and  with  depraved  barbarians  all  around  you 
ready  at  any  moment  to  catch  you  and  eat  you,  or 
one  of  our  slaves,  living  in  comfort  and  plenty  under 
a  kind  master?  Is  it  any  wonder  these  people  are 
satisfied  ?  Why,  my  dear,  surely,  when  they  remember 
the  horrors  of  the  dark  continent  the  sweet  serenity 
of  Sassafras  must  seem  like  dream-land." 

Abby  admitted  that  this  view  of  the  matter  was 
not  wholly  unreasonable. 

"The  slave  system,"  continued  Mrs.  Harley,  "is 
simply  a  return  to  patriarchal  methods.  The  defence- 
less black  leans  on  the  strong  arm  of  the  white.  The 
benighted  savage  is  brought  where  the  light  may 
shine  upon  him.  The  heathen  in  his  blindness,  bow- 
ing down  to  wood  and  stone,  comes  under  the  benefi- 
cent influence  of  religion  and  family-prayers.  Rightly 
considered,  Mr.  Harley  is  a  patriarch.  His  very 
presence  among  these  poor  creatures  is  a  joy  and  a 
benediction." 

Still,  Abby  felt  sure  there  was  another  side  to  the 
picture,  and  it  was  revealed  to  her  unexpectedly.  On 
the  next  morning  early  she  happened  to  look  from 
her  chamber  window  and  out  by  the  carriage  house, 


Days  at  Sassafras. 


233 


a  hundred  yards  away,  she  saw  Mr.  Harley  with  a 
black-snake  whip  flogging  a  gigantic  negro,  who 
clenched  his  hands  and  restrained  his  tongue  while 
the  blows  fell  upon  him. 

Abby  turned  away  half  sick  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  She  felt  a  wave  of  wrath  sweep  in 
upon  her  and  suddenly  Sassafras  and  everything 
about  it  became  repulsive.  Before  she  had  fully 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  this  spectacle  Penelope 
knocked  upon  her  door  and  came  in  to  wait  upon 
her  while  she  dressed.  Abby  resolved  to  say  noth- 
ing to  the  girl  about  the  flogging,  but  Penelope  was 
visibly  agitated  about  something  and  guessing  where 
the  sympathies  of  the  Quakeress  were,  she  said: 

"Miss  Abby,  ef  you'd  'a'  looked  outen  yer  window 
jes  now,  you  could  a  seen  sumpin." 

"I  did  see  it,  Penny,"  said  Abby  quietly.  "Who 
was  the  man?" 

T  was  ole  Uncle  Billy,  Missy,  de  bes'  nigger 
Mars  Po'tah  got." 

"Why  was  he  punished?" 

"De  laws  knows,  Miss  Abby.  Sassin'  de  overseer 
or  sumpin  o'  dat  kind.  But  it  doan  mek  no  differ- 
ence. Mars  Po'tah  been  long  mad  agin  Billy  an'  he 
beat  him,  jes  for  nuffin,  soon  as  not." 

"The  black  people  are  not  unhappy  here,  though, 
Penelope?" 

"Missy  we's  got  to  be  mighty  keerful  what  we  say, 
but  I  kin  trus'  you,  for  I  knows  dat  all  de  Friends 
favors  de  black  folks.  Mars  Po'tah  treats  dem  fair 
enough  most  times  and  Miss  Harley  she  jes  ez  kind 
ez  she  kin  be.  But  all  de  niggers  knows  about  Mars 


234  Tke  Quakeress. 

Linkum  an'  de  war  agin'  de  slaveholders,  and  dey's 
a  hopin'  to  be  free.  Dat  jes  stands  to  reason,  Missy, 
doan  it?  Ef  dey  know  how  to  do  it,  every  grown 
nigger  on  dis  yer  plantation  would  git  away  to- 
night." 

"Not  you,  Penny?" 

"Yes'm.  I  want  to  go  and  I'm  gwine  de  very  fus 
chance.  You  min'  dat,  Miss  Abby,  and  I'd  like  to  go 
when  you  go;  but  you're  not  sayin'  nothin?  Billy'll 
not  be  yer  to-morrow  ef  I  knows  him.  Mars  Po'tah 
done  lash  him  once  too  often.  He'd  a  quit  long  ago, 
but  for  his  wife  an'  chilluns." 

Sure  enough,  when  Abby  on  the  next  morning 
came  down  to  breakfast  there  was  gloom  upon  the 
faces  of  the  white  members  of  the  household,  and 
Abby  did  not  have  to  ask  the  reason  why.  In  her 
chamber  Penny  had  told  her  that  Billy,  under  cover 
of  the  darkness,  had  left  his  wife  and  children  and 
fled  northward  to  liberty. 

When  family  prayer  was  said  Mr.  Harley  seemed 
feverish  and  hurried.  Abby  thought  he  might  as 
well  have  omitted  that  lovely  petition  that  we  may 
be  "quiet  and  peaceable,  full  of  compassion  and  ready 
to  do  good  to  all  men;"  but  Mr.  Harley's  mind  may 
not  have  been  upon  the  words. 

At  the  table  no  reference  was  made  to  the  disap- 
pearance of  Billy,  but  Mr.  Harley  found  expression 
for  his  feelings  in  the  declaration,  made  with  intense 
earnestness  while  he  dismembered  the  fried  chicken : 

"I  wish  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  there  was 
not  an  infernal  nigger,  slave  or  free,  upon  this  con- 
tinent !" 


Days  at  Sassafras.  235 

When  all  was  well  with  his  slaves  and  Mr.  Harley 
was  in  good  humor,  he  spoke  of  them  as  "my  faith- 
ful blacks;"  when  they  gave  him  trouble  he  alluded 
to  them  as  "those  infernal  niggers!" 

Just  now  he  was  weary  of  the  race  and  of  the  dif- 
ficulties in  which  it  involved  him  and  the  nation,  and 
multitudes  of  slave-owners  felt  as  he  did. 

Will  the  Americans  of  the  future  understand  the 
situation  in  which  these  people  were  placed?  The 
Southern  men  of  the  last  century  did  not  create  sla- 
very. It  came  to  them  as  an  unwelcome  inheritance. 
Many  of  them  gave  it  no  sincere  approval.  But  vast 
capital  was  invested  in  slaves,  capital  not  to  be 
recovered  by  any  method  of  emancipation  that  was 
really  practicable.  Perhaps  it  was  too  much  to  ask 
that  this  investment  should  be  simply  annihilated. 
The  labor  of  the  slaves  was  needed.  To  withdraw  it 
within  any  brief  period  would  have  been  to  paralyze 
Southern  industry  and  to  destroy  the  productive 
power  of  the  South.  The  value  of  the  plantations 
would  have  been  reduced  to  ruinous  figures  by  quick 
emancipation;  and  then  the  question,  What  is  to 
become  of  the  blacks  ?  was  not  easy  to  answer.  It  has 
not  had,  even  yet,  a  satisfactory  answer. 

Pressure  from  the  North,  carrying  with  it  an 
assumption  of  superior  virtue  upon  the  part  of  the 
Northern  men,  came  upon  Southerners  whose  con- 
sciences were  already  troubled  by  slavery  and  who 
were  entangled  in  the  economical  and  other  difficul- 
ties surrounding  the  matter,  and  it  was  resented. 
Really,  upon  the  whole,  the  wise  and  humane  men 
among  the  Southerners  did  their  best  with  a  situation 


236  The  Quakeress. 

of  extraordinary  perplexity  for  which  they  were  not 
responsible,  and  the  fierce  assaults  of  the  abolitionists 
not  only  exasperated  them,  but  impelled  them  to 
stand  together  for  organized  resistance. 

Before  Abby  had  been  at  Sassafras  for  many  days, 
Mrs.  Harley  arranged  to  have  in  her  honor  a  garden- 
party.  The  first  intention  was  to  provide  a  picnic 
and  to  hold  it  at  Parker's  Bluff;  but  after  much  dis- 
cussion the  Harleys  decided  that  the  entertainment 
could  be  more  comfortably  and  conveniently  offered 
upon  their  own  place  and  that  the  compliment  to 
their  guest  would  be  greater. 

Provision  was  made  for  sailing  upon  the  inlet,  for 
fishing  for  the  white  perch  with  which  those  waters 
are  filled;  for  croquet  and  other  games  and  for  danc- 
ing upon  the  lawn.  The  music  was  to  be  supplied  by 
two  of  Mr.  Harley's  negroes,  famous  fiddlers,  and  a 
banjo  player  of  much  repute  from  the  Morris  planta- 
tion. 

"The  negro,"  said  Mrs.  Harley  to  Abby,  "has  a 
remarkable  gift  for  music.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  remin- 
iscence of  the  lost  glory  of  the  race — lost  by  the 
unfilial  and  scandalous  conduct  of  Ham.  But  even  this 
gift  would  have  been  undeveloped  and  unknown  had 
the  blacks  remained  in  Africa.  They  say  the  natives 
of  that  continent  simply  screech  and  beat  on  tom- 
toms— whatever  they  are.  Contact  with  the  whites 
revealed  the  latent  musical  power  which  had  been 
smothered  for  centuries." 

In  the  early  afternoon  the  visitors  came  in  scores 
on  horseback  and  soon  the  wide  lawn  was  thronged 
by  young  men  and  young  women  in  holiday  dress, 


Days  at  Sassafras. 


237 


and  the  stream  that  flowed  by  the  foot  of  the  lawn 
bore  a  dozen  boats  sailing  and  rowing  to  and  fro. 

All  the  games  were  going  and  the  company  was 
scattered  about  among  the  trees  and  over  the  grass 
before  the  musicians  came  and  taking  place  beneath 
a  great  chestnut  tree  began  the  twanging  and  thrum- 
ming of  their  instruments  in  preparation  for  the 
dance.  About  the  skill  of  the  players  in  producing 
dance-music  there  could  be  no  doubt  at  all,  when 
once  they  began  their  task,  nor  was  it  less  evident 
that  they  were  in  earnest  and  enthusiastic  in  the  per- 
formance. They  played  with  vigor  while  their  bodies 
swayed  to  and  fro,  and  the  older  fiddler  seemed  in  a 
sort  of  ecstasy  as  he  called  the  figures  of  the  cotil- 
lions and  the  reels,  while  the  dancers  whirled  about 
upon  the  sward. 

With  Clayton  near  to  her,  Abby,  sitting  beneath 
the  shade  of  a  chestnut  tree,  watched  the  dancers 
with  interest  and  perhaps  not  without  a  little  feeling 
of  regret  that  she  could  not  join  them.  More  than 
once  she  was  invited  by  the  young  men  to  do  so,  but 
always  she  was  compelled  to  shake  her  head  and  with 
a  smile  to  say: 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry,  but  indeed  I  do  not  know 
how  to  dance." 

"Dolly  and  I  will  teach  you,"  said  Clayton  when 
she  first  professed  her  ignorance,  but  Abby  replied 
that  she  could  not  venture  to  depart  so  far  from  the 
approved  practice  and  sound  principles  of  Friends. 

But  indeed  there  was  pleasure  enough  for  her  in 
watching  the  movements  of  the  visitors,  in  listening 
to  the  bright  talk,  and  happy  laughter  all  about  her, 


238  The  Quakeress. 

and  in  receiving  the  greetings  of  the  folks  whom  she 
already  knew  or  who  for  the  first  time  were  intro- 
duced to  her.  She  could  not  doubt  that  she  was 
much  liked  for  herself,  as  well  as  because  she  was  a 
stranger  who  had  come  to  the  house  of  popular  peo- 
ple, for  there  was  the  heartiness  of  sincerity  in  every 
word  spoken  to  her.  Clayton  could  have  told  her, 
if  he  had  wished,  that  everybody  present  thought  her 
grace  and  beauty  wonderful,  and  her  simple  pretty 
costume  the  most  becoming  of  all  the  dresses  worn 
at  the  party. 

The  young  men  were  as  attentive  to  her  as  they 
could  be,  but  with  them  she  was  shy.  She  could  not 
dance,  nor  would  she  go  upon  the  river,  and  she  puz- 
zled them  not  a  little  with  her  very  quiet  manner  and 
her  Quaker  speech. 

Carrol  Thorn,  the  son  of  a  planter  over  near  to 
Georgetown,  found  her  fascinating  and  he  had  not 
talked  with  her  long  before  he  determined  that  he 
was  more  than  half  in  love  with  her. 

Thorn  was  a  tall,  thin  young  man,  with  reddish 
hair,  and  with  a  hard  face,  not  unhandsome,  but  sug- 
gestive of  fast  living.  His  family  was  rich  and  he 
was  the  heir;  always  he  had  had  his  own  way;  and 
if  he  fancied  a  girl  like  Abby,  it  was  impossible  that 
he  should  be  balked  either  by  her  demure  shy  bear- 
ing or  by  the  manifest  purpose  of  Clayton  to  admit 
no  rivals  to  the  field,  but  to  keep  the  girl  closely  to 
himself. 

Thus  Thorn,  who  was  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  cul- 
ture, and  used  to  the  best  social  things,  addressed 
himself  earnestly  to  the  task  of  making  a  good 


Days  at  Sassafras. 


239 


impression  upon  the  Quakeress.  She  regarded  him  at 
first  with  mild  disfavor;  but  the  graciousness  of  his 
manner  and  his  high  speech  enabled  him  largely  to 
overcome  this  feeling,  and  soon  Abby  accepted  his 
invitation  to  walk  with  him  to  the  water's  edge. 

She  was  more  willing  to  go  with  him  because  she 
perceived  the  necessity  that  she  should  not  appear 
to  permit  Clayton  to  have  any  special  claim  upon 
her.  But  that  claim  he  thought  he  had,  and  he  was 
guilty  of  the  folly,  not  unusual  with  lovers,  of  cher- 
ishing feelings  of  anger  towards  her  and  towards 
the  man  who  bestowed  upon  her  the  courtesy  of  his 
attention.  He  actually  sulked  and  felt  incapable  of 
playing  his  part  as  one  of  the  givers  of  the  feast, 
while  he  watched  Thorn  and  Abby  strolling  across 
the  lawn  toward  the  river. 

Thorn  was  eager  and  impetuous  in  his  talk  with 
the  girl,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  roughness  and 
peremptoriness  in  his  speech  which  was  not  in  tune 
with  her  gentle  nature.  But  upon  the  whole  she 
liked  him  more  than  she  thought  she  would  have 
done,  and  he,  believing  that  he  was  gaining  ground 
with  her,  strove  with  all  the  power  he  had  to  com- 
mend himself  to  her  approval. 

They  sat  upon  the  grass  on  the  bank  that  dropped 
off  to  the  verge  of  the  river  and  he  talked  to  her 
vivaciously  about  everything  that  he  thought  would 
interest  her.  Particularly  did  he  wish  to  know  of 
Friends  and  their  ideas,  beliefs  and  methods,  and 
so  there  was  strong  temptation  for  Abby  to  talk  and 
to  tell  him  of  things  she  loved. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  conversation  delightful 


240 


The  Quakeress. 


for  him  and  not  displeasing  to  her,  when  Thorn, 
turning  his  head,  saw  Clayton  near  by,  but  just  dis- 
tant enough  to  avoid  the  reproach  that  he  was  seek- 
ing Abby. 

Thorn  pretended  not  to  see  him,  but,  rising,  he 
gave  his  hand  to  Abby  to  lift  her  to  her  feet,  and 
slowly  they  walked  back  to  the  groups  that  were 
gathered  upon  the  upper  lawn.  When  Thorn  had 
surrendered  Abby  to  Mrs.  Harley,  he  turned  and 
went  again  toward  the  river,  meeting  Clayton  on 
the  way.  Thorn  stopped  him  and  said  to  him 
sharply : 

"It  was  not  worth  while  to  follow  me  up,  as  if  I 
were  going  to  run  away  with  her." 

"We  shall  not  make  her  a  subject  of  discussion, 
please." 

"No!"  responded  Thorn,  "and  yet  it  might  be  of 
advantage  to  her  if  I  should  have  some  discussion 
with  her." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Does  she  know  you  are  already  married?" 

"What  she  knows  or  does  not  know  is  no  concern 
of  yours,  nor  yet  is  it  your  privilege  to  meddle  with 
me." 

"It  may  be  a  duty,  rather  than  a  privilege,"  said 
Thorn,  with  a  black  look  upon  his  face. 

But  Clayton,  making  no  response,  turned  upon 
his  heel  and  crossed  the  sward  to  where  Abby  was. 

Dr.  Ramsey  was  a  conspicuous  figure  among  the 
people  on  the  lawn,  but  Abby  noted  that  he  was  not 
specially  attentive  to  Dolly.  He  danced  with  her 
once,  but  he  was  partner  for  half  a  dozen  girls  in 


Days  at  Sassafras. 


succession,  and  he  neither  walked  nor  talked  with 
Dolly  during  the  remainder  of  the  day.  Abby 
began  to  believe  that  she  had  been  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  the  doctor  and  Dolly  were  interested  in 
each  other. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  was  somewhat 
weary  of  the  gaiety  and  excitement  of  the  party,  she 
went  alone  over  to  the  garden  at  the  side  of  the  lawn 
and  entered  it,  thinking  she  would  rest  for  a  little 
while  within  the  enclosure. 

The  garden  had  all  about  it  a  high  hedge  of  mock- 
orange  and  around  each  of  the  great  flower-beds  was 
a  border  of  box-wood,  dense  and  grown  higher  than 
Abby's  head.  She  found  in  one  of  the  graveled  walks 
a  rustic  seat  upon  which  she  placed  herself,  intending 
to  return  speedily  to  the  lawn  and  to  the  throng  of 
men  and  women  whose  voices  came  to  her  in  a  con- 
fused babble  across  the  hedge. 

But  no  sooner  had  she  taken  her  seat  than  she 
became  aware  that  other  persons  were  near  to  her 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  box-wood  bushes,  and 
before  she  had  time  to  think  what  she  ought  to  do,  she 
recognized  the  voices  of  Dr.  Ramsey  and  of  Dolly. 
He  was  speaking  passionately  to  her  and  she,  respond- 
ing in  broken  sentences,  seemed  to  be  not  at  all  reluc- 
tant to  accept  his  protestations. 

Abby  was  ashamed  to  hear  them,  and  quickly 
arose  and  moved  away  as  quietly  as  possible  with  a 
purpose  to  conceal  her  presence.  She  could  have  no 
doubt  now,  at  any  rate,  of  the  doctor's  sentiment  for 
Dolly;  and  despite  her  genuine  regret  that  she  had 
unintentionally  been  a  listener,  she  smiled  as  she 

16 


The  Quakeress. 


walked  over  to  the  garden-gate  at  the  discovery  she 
had  made.  She  knew  little  or  nothing  of  Dr.  Ram- 
sey, but  it  seemed  a  pleasant  thing  that  Dolly  should 
have  had  awakened  in  her  soul  that  passion  which 
had  brought  such  bliss  to  Abby,  even  if  sorrow  had 
come  with  it. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  all  the  company  had  gone, 
Abby  walked  with  Clayton  down  to  the  pier  that 
jutted  out  upon  the  river  by  the  boat-house,  and 
while  the  twilight  began  to  fall  and  the  shadows  of 
the  evening  lay  upon  the  still  grey  water  before  them, 
they  talked  of  the  party  and  the  people  and  of  the 
promise  of  pleasure  that  was  in  store  for  them  still, 
before  Abby  should  return  to  Connock. 

"Mrs.  Morris  has  asked  us  to  an  evening  party 
at  her  house  for  Thursday,"  said  Clayton. 

"Yes,"  responded  the  girl.  "She  invited  me  and 
strongly  urged  me  to  come." 

"And  you  will  go?" 

"It  would  be  ungracious  not  to  go,  wouldn't  it? 
And  yet  I  am  not  used  to  parties,  and  I  know  they 
will  dance  all  the  time,  and  I  cannot  dance." 

"But  you  will  have  to  go,"  said  Clayton,  "and 
Dolly  and  I  will  take  care  of  the  rest  of  it." 

"I  will  consider  it,"  said  Abby,  who  knew  she 
should  decide  to  attend  the  ball,  although  she  shrank 
a  little  from  the  thought  of  it,  when  she  remembered 
Connock  a"nd  her  father  and  mother  and  the  Meet- 
ing and  George. 

She  put  aside  the  matter  now,  and,  thinking  of 
what  she  had  heard  in  the  garden,  she  said  : 

"Clayton,  I  wish  to  ask  thee  something.  Who  is 
Doctor  Ramsey?" 


Days  at  Sassafras. 


243 


"Ramsey?  He  is  a  cousin  of  my  mother's;  a  sec- 
ond or  third  cousin,  or  something  of  that  kind,  I 
believe.  I  never  understood  very  well  the  relation- 
ships of  the  family  a  generation  or  so  back.  Why 
do  you  inquire  about  him?" 

"Mere  idle  curiosity.  I  find  him  here  with  thy 
family  and  I  could  not  quite  understand  his  position." 

"His  home  is  in  Baltimore,  where  he  has  made 
some  sort  of  a  pretense  at  practicing  medicine,  but  he 
is  rich  and  need  not  do  more  than  he  likes  in  that 
direction.  He  comes  here  to  stay  with  us  a  good 
deal,  and  we  find  him  an  agreeable  addition  to  the 
household." 

"I  thought — "  said  Abby,  and  then  stopped. 

"What  do  you  think,  my  dear?" 

Abby  laughed  lightly  and  said: 

"Well,  I  had  an  idea  that  he  cared  for  thy  sister. 
Pardon  me  for  saying  that.  I  have  no  right  to  say  it." 

Clayton  was  amused. 

"My  dear,"  he  answered,  "your  ideas  have  led  you 
far  away  from  the  fact.  Why,  Abby,  Dr.  Ramsey 
has  a  wife  and  two  children.  I  did  not  intend  to  tell 
you  that,  for  he  has  separated  from  them.  I  don't 
know  much  about  it.  Some  kind  of  a  squabble,  or 
incompatibility,  or  a  money-fuss.  They  couldn't  agree, 
anyhow,  and  so  Ramsey  turned  over  house  and  home 
to  her  and  cash  for  maintenance,  while  he  roams 
about,  coming  here  occasionally  and  making  jour- 
neys to  the  North.  He  never  had  a  thought  of  Dolly 
nor  she  of  him.  Dolly!  why,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't 
stand  that  kind  of  a  thing  for  a  minute !  and  do  you 
think  she—?" 


The  Quakeress. 


Clayton  had  a  vibration  of  anger  in  his  voice  as 
he  abruptly  stopped  speaking.  Abby  was  looking  up 
at  him.  He  turned  his  eyes  to  hers.  She  stayed 
silent,  but  the  crimson  flushes  mounted  to  her  cheeks 
and  to  her  forehead  and  the  hot  blood  poured  upon 
her  brain  until  she  thought  she  should  swoon. 

Clayton's  face  was  red  also,  and  he  held  his  tongue; 
but  he  clenched  his  hands  until  the  nails  almost 
pierced  the  palms,  and  silently  cursed  himself  that 
he  had  not  been  more  prudent  in  his  speech. 

For  a  few  moments  they  looked  out  upon  the 
water  now  glimmering  white  in  the  dusk,  and  then 
Abby  arose  and  said  : 

"Let  us  go  to  the  house." 

She  took  her  companion's  arm  as  they  walked  from 
the  pier  to  the  lawn,  and  then  over  the  grass  to  the 
house. 

Clayton  tried  to  turn  her  thoughts  away  from  Dr. 
Ramsey  and  Dolly  by  speaking  of  the  Morris  ball 
and  of  the  pleasures  of  the  day  that  were  just  now 
ended;  but  Abby  had  fallen  silent;  and  almost  as  soon 
as  she  reached  the  house  she  went  to  her  room  and 
to  bed, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
Witk  tke  World's  People. 

ABBY  had  half  resolved  not  to  go  to  Mrs.  Morris's 
ball.  She  was  worried  by  the  strange  suspicion  that 
had  been  awakened  in  her  mind  about  Dolly,  and 
then  she  shrank  from  proceeding  much  farther  along 
the  way  that  led  her  far  from  the  teachings  and  prac- 
tices of  Friends. 

But  Clayton  reassured  her  concerning  his  sister, 
and  she  began  to  believe  that  really  she  might  have 
misunderstood  the  talk  she  had  overheard  in  the  gar- 
den. Dr.  Ramsey  had  gone  away  for  a  time  and 
Dolly's  demeanor  surely  gave  no  indication  that  she 
had  any  serious  thought  for  him  or  for  any  other 
person. 

And  then  the  Quakeress  could  hardly  escape  the 
influence  of  the  excitement  attending  Dolly's  prepa- 
rations for  the  ball,  whilst  always  in  her  mind  was 
the  thought  that  if  she  went  to  the  Morris  plantation 
on  that  night  Clayton  would  be  her  close  companion. 

"There  can  be  no  possible  harm  in  it,  dear,"  urged 
Dolly.  "The  best  people  in  the  neighborhood,  lots 
of  them  religious  people,  will  be  there,  and  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris is  a  model  of  a  woman;  a  church-member,  too. 
You  should  have  a  chance  to  see  a  little  of  the  world, 
Abby.  It  is  not  very  wicked.  A  ball  like  this  is 
merely  a  pleasant  gathering  of  friends.  Go  just  once 

(245) 


246  The  Quakeress. 

and  meet  them,  and  never  go  again  if  you  find  the 
meeting  not  to  your  fancy." 

"But  the  dancing!"  said  Abby,  "and  my  plain 
clothing!  I  cannot  dance,  and  I  should  be  queer 
among  those  gaily  dressed  people." 

Dolly  became  more  urgent  as  she  saw  Abby's  reso- 
lution weakening,  and  so  she  produced  a  beautiful 
dress  which  Abby  was  persuaded  to  try  on ;  and  then, 
putting  her  arm  about  the  Quaker  girl,  Dolly  insisted 
that  she  should  learn  the  steps  of  the  waltz  whilst  Dolly 
hummed  a  tune. 

Soon  the  two  were  whirling  about  the  room,  and 
when  they  stopped  Abby  looked  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  and  saw  there  a  face  and  a  figure  made 
strangely  handsome  by  the  bright  attire. 

Then  Clayton  came  in  and  his  words  of  praise  of 
her  appearance  were  less  to  her  than  the  admiration 
plainly  depicted  on  his  face. 

His  repeated  earnest  entreaty  that  she  should  go 
to  the  ball,  and  with  him,  removed  the  last  remnant 
of  her  reluctance  and  so,  many  times  again  that  day 
and  the  next,  she  practiced  the  steps  of  the  dance 
with  Dolly,  while  Penelope's  skilled  fingers  touched 
here  and  there  with  bits  of  lace  and  ribbon  the  dress 
that  Abby  was  to  wear. 

Amid  all  these  delightful  preparations  there  was 
no  time  for  compunction,  nor  when,  on  the  evening 
of  the  ball,  Clayton  wrapped  a  cloak  about  her  and 
led  her  out  to  the  wagon  which  he  would  drive  with 
his  own  hands  to  the  Morris  plantation.  A  negro  on 
horseback  followed  to  care  for  the  horse  when  the 
plantation  should  be  reached. 


With  the  World  s  People.     247 

Then  when  Abby  had  placed  herself  in  the  carriage 
with  Clayton  beside  her,  they  drove  slowly  down  the 
graveled  way  among  the  shadows  of  the  evergreens 
that  the  early  moonlight  threw  across  the  path,  and 
so  came  out  upon  the  road  that  ran  beneath  the  great 
trees  by  the  river-bank. 

A  strange  joy  was  in  the  heart  of  the  girl.  The 
joy  to  be  alone  with  Clayton  was  stronger  than  ever 
before,  and  with  it  was  mingled  the  pleasure  of  high 
expectation.  For  all  this  coming  experience  had  the 
thrill  and  the  charm  of  novelty.  She  had  found  that 
she  loved  to  dance,  and  now  she  was  to  dance  with 
this  man,  and  to  hearken  to  rapturous  music,  to  see 
strange  faces  and  to  wear  for  the  first  time  in  public 
garments  that  appealed  to  her  senses  almost  as  music 
did. 

The  night  was  lovely,  and  the  scene  about  them, 
softened  and  made  mystical  by  the  uncertain  light, 
seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever.  If  she  had  found 
in  her  mind  an  impulse  to  regret  that  she  had 
departed  from  the  principles  of  her  people,  she  could 
have  had  no  chance  to  cherish  it,  for  Clayton  was 
in  high  spirits  and  he  talked  constantly  to  her  with 
mingled  humor  and  tenderness  and  both  of  them 
found  frequent  provocation  to  hearty  laughter.  When 
the  Morris  house  was  reached  Abby  wondered  at  the 
shortness  of  the  journey. 

Dolly,  who  had  come  with  her  father,  met  the 
Quakeress  at  the  very  entrance  of  the  broad  hallway 
and  together  they  went  to  the  great  chamber  over- 
head where  negro  maids  were  ready  to  take  their 
wraps.  Then  Dolly  turned  to  adjust  her  friend's 


The  Quakeress. 


dress  and  to  put  a  fresh  flower  in  her  hair,  after 
which  she  presented  her  to  three  or  four  women 
whom  Abby  thought  very  beautiful. 

Abby  went  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  wide  draw- 
ing-room, leaning  upon  Clayton's  arm,  and  Clayton 
did  not  even  try  to  hide  the  exultation  with  which  he 
led  this  sweet  stranger  in  among  the  throngs  of  his 
friends.  The  girl  could  not  but  be  conscious  that  she 
had  strong  attention  from  the  company,  for  all  the 
women  came  to  greet  her  with  warm  Southern  gra- 
ciousness  and  the  young  men  were  eager  to  know 
her. 

"I  will  dance  with  none  but  thee,"  she  whispered 
to  Clayton,  when  the  music  softly  began. 

"The  others  may  think  that  ungenerous,"  said 
Clayton,  not  displeased. 

"They  must  not,"  she  said.  "I  dance  so  poorly 
that  I  should  be  ashamed,  and  then  —  then  —  I  am 
half  afraid  it  is  not  right  for  me  to  dance  at  all." 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you  must  put  that  by.  Some 
of  these  women  who  will  dance  are  really  angels  of 
goodness.  There  can  be  no  harm.  But  you  shall 
do  as  you  like,  only  you  must  dance  with  me,  will 
you  not?" 

"Yes,  but  once  or  twice,  and  thee  will  say  to  them, 
will  thee  not,  if  they  think  me  unkind,  that  I  have 
never  danced  before?" 

"Yes,  you  shall  not  dance  with  them  if  you  do  not 
wish.  I  will  explain.  And  now,  there  is  a  waltz.  Will 
you  come?" 

She  had  ever  been  exquisitely  sensitive  to  sweet 
music,  and  now,  with  the  arms  of  the  man  she  loved 


With  the  World's  People.     249 

about  her,  with  her  face  near  to  his,  with  the  stronger 
heart-beats  compelled  by  the  swift  movement,  with 
the  mirrored  lights,  the  perfumed  air,  the  gay  colors, 
the  whirling  forms  about  her,  that  music  seemed  to 
her  so  rapturously  beautiful  that  her  eyes  became 
misty  and  her  soul  was  lifted  into  perfect  ecstasy. 
This,  then,  is  why  people  love  to  dance!  No  won- 
der !  She  felt  in  that  moment  as  if  never  before  had 
she  known  pure  bliss,  and  whether  it  were  merely 
sensuous  or  something  loftier  and  better  she  could 
not  care  or  even  think.  She  gave  herself  up  to  it 
and  forgot  everything  but  herself  and  her  partner; 
and  when  the  music  stopped  and  with  cheeks  red- 
dened into  brilliancy  of  beauty  the  two  walked  into 
the  hallway,  she  found  herself  clinging  to  Clayton's 
arm  as  if  he  were  a  part  of  her.  She  was  almost 
unable  to  articulate. 

"I  knew  you  would  like  the  dance,"  he  said,  for 
he  did  not  need  to  ask  her  if  she  liked  it. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  tenderness  in  her  eyes 
and  said : 

"I  did  not  dream  it  was  so  lovely." 

"And  we  will  dance  again,"  said  Clayton,  "but  now 
we  will  walk  upon  the  porch  for  a  while." 

So  he  threw  a  wrap  about  her  and  out  they  went 
upon  the  wide  piazza  upheld  by  great  white  columns. 
Others  were  there  in  the  cool  air  and  the  moonlight, 
but  these  two  walked  far  up  to  the  end  where  the 
river  could  be  seen,  with  the -white  light  shining  upon 
it,  and  there  they  stood,  and  b.oth  for  a  time  were 
silent. 

Through  the  open  windows  came  to  them  the 


250  The  Quakeress. 


sound  of  voices  in  lively  conversation  and  now  and 
then  of  merriment,  and  presently  the  music  began 
again  and,  as  the  dancers  thronged  the  floor,  the  clat- 
ter of  tongues  was  half-muffled. 

"Once  I  cared  for  that  revelry,"  said  Clayton.  "I 
cared  for  it  for  itself;  but  now  it  would  be  nothing  to 
me  if  you  were  not  here." 

She  clasped  his  arm  more  closely. 

"It  is  pure  joy  for  me  to  be  here,"  said  Abby, 
softly. 

"With  me?" 

"I  cannot  tell :  the  music,  the  people,  the  stir  of  the 
dance — all  give  me  strange  pleasure;  but  perhaps — 
perhaps  it  is  because  you  are  with  me !" 

Then  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  landscape  half 
revealed  by  the  moonlight,  and  said : 

"And  that  is  better,  with  its  sweetness  and  quiet 
and  solitude  than  the  noise  and  the  heat  and  the 
crowd  of  the  ball-room.  It  is  better  for  lovers,  at 
any  rate!" 

"But  we  must  not  stay  here,"  said  Abby,  "delight- 
ful as  it  is." 

"No,  we  will  go  in  and  dance  again." 

When  Clayton  had  danced  with  her  once  more, 
other  young  men  claimed  her  as  a  partner  and  were 
urgent  for  her  acceptance,  but  she  thought  she  must 
refuse,  and  Mrs.  Morris  graciously  came  to  her  aid 
in  giving  to  the  disappointed  applicants  some  sort 
of  reason  for  her  refusal.  And  Mrs.  Morris;  when 
they  were  alone  for  a  moment,  said  to  her : 

"I  am  sorry  you  feel  you  cannot  take  them  for 
partners;  but  I  shall  love  the  Quakers  if  they  are  all 
like  you,  my  dear!" 


With  the  World  s  People.     251 

There  was  one  young  man  who  found,  he  thought, 
matter  for  offence  in  Abby's  gentle  but  firm  refusal 
to  dance  with  him.  Carrol  Thorn  was  more  insistent 
than  courtesy  permitted,  and  when  he  found  his  efforts 
unavailing  he  turned  away  with  some  bitterness  of 
feeling  in  his  heart  against  the  girl  and  against  the 
man  who  kept  her  for  himself. 

After  a  while  Clayton  took  Abby  to  the  supper- 
room  where  a  great  table  was  filled  with  dainty  food 
and  bore  upon  it  at  either  end  a  huge  bowl  filled  with 
punch.  Wine  was  taken  by  everybody  and  by  some 
of  the  young  men  not  sparingly,  so  that  Abby  soon 
began  to  see  in  the  faces  of  the  men  about  her  a  flush 
that  startled  her.  Clayton,  too,  she  thought,  had 
not  been  indifferent  to  this  enticement,  and  she 
begged  him  to  go  with  her  to  the  porch  again.  As 
they  passed  through  the  doorway  from  the  hall  to 
the  porch,  both  of  them  heard  a  man  say  to  two  or 
three  young  men  who  stood  with  him: 

"She  is  pretty,  but  she  is  a  damned  abolitionist." 

They  could  not  help  hearing  the  words,  nor  could 
they  help  seeing  that  the  man  who  uttered  them  was 
Carrol  Thorn. 

Thorn's  companions  quickly  withdrew  when  Clay- 
ton and  Abby  came  suddenly  upon  them;  but  Thorn, 
somewhat  shamefaced,  but  too  proud  to  run  away, 
remained  by  the  doorway. 

"Come  back  into  the  room,"  said  Clayton  to  Abby, 
turning  about.  Abby  obeyed  him,  but  once  within, 
she  whispered  to  him : 

"Give  no  heed  to  him,  Clayton,  I  pray  thee." 

Clayton  made  no  answer.  He  led  her  to  where 
Dolly  was  and  said  to  his  sister: 


252  The  Quakeress. 

"Care  for  her,  Dolly,  for  a  moment." 

Abby  dared  make  no  demonstration;  but  the  pallor 
of  her  face  showed  the  dread  in  her  heart. 

"I  fear  Clayton  will  have  trouble,"  she  said  to 
Dolly. 

"About  what?"  asked  Dolly. 

"About  me." 

Dolly  laughed,  without  understanding  the  matter, 
and  answered: 

"Don't  worry  about  him !  He  can  take  care  of 
himself. 

Clayton  went  straight  to  Thorn  and  said : 

"Did  you  use  those  words  of  Miss  Woolford?" 

"Yes !"  answered  Thorn,  lifting  his  head  and  look- 
ing at  him  defiantly. 

"In  her  hearing,  too,  like  a  brave  man!" 

"I  did  not  know  she  was  there." 

"You  will  retract  them  and  apologize  to  her,  then." 

"Not  at  your  bidding !" 

"But  I  am  the  one  who  will  bid  you  do  it.  I  am 
her  friend." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  are.  You  will  lower  your 
tone  and  quit  your  insolence  before  you  will  get  any- 
thing from  me." 

"You  are  a  liar  and  a  coward !"  said  Clayton. 

Thorn  slapped  his  cheek  sharply. 

Clayton  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  to  think  if  he 
should  spring  upon  his  antagonist  and  avenge  him- 
self then  and  there.  But  he  controlled  his  rage  and 
said: 

"I  will  kill  you  for  this,  man !" 

Thorn  laughed  lightly,  turned  upon  his  heel  and 
walked  away. 


With  the  World's  People.     253 

Then  Clayton  came  again  to  Abby,  who  waited  for 
him,  her  soul  rilled  with  fear.  She  no  longer  cared 
for  the  music  or  the  gay  scene;  hardly  could  she 
maintain  a  semblance  of  composure  whilst  she 
replied  to  those  who  talked  to  her.  Abby  was  hot  with 
eagerness  to  hear  from  him  a  message  of  peace,  but 
the  look  upon  his  face  discouraged  her  hope  that  the 
quarrel  had  been  arranged.  Clayton  tried  to  speak 
to  her  softly  and  with  reassuring  words,  but  the  pre- 
tence did  not  deceive  her.  She  saw  that  wine  was 
in  his  brain  and  that  passion  was  there  with  it. 

Then  all  the  scene  about  her  quickly  became  ter- 
rible, and  as  she  looked  at  the  reddened  cheeks  of 
many  of  the  men  and  heard  louder  laughter  and 
louder  talk  than  there  had  been  two  hours  before,  she 
rose  and  putting  her  hand  upon  Clayton's  arm,  said 
to  him: 

"Let  us  go  home." 

"Why,  Abby — "  began  Clayton,  as  if  to  dissuade 
her. 

"O !  take  me  home,  take  me  home  at  once !  O ! 
please  do  so,  Clayton !" 

When  they  were  in  the  carriage  Clayton  began  to 
talk  lightly  of  the  ball  and  the  dance  and  the  people, 
but  her  mind  was  clear;  and  she  made  no  answer 
until  presently  she  said  : 

"Thee  will  not  quarrel  with  Mr.  Thorn,  Clayton?" 

Clayton  hesitated  before  replying.     Then  he  said: 

"A  Southern  gentleman  has  but  one  answer  for 
the  man  who  is  insolent  to  a  woman.  I  should  be 
unworthy  of  you  if  I  did  not  resent  an  insult  to  you." 

"Not  an  insult,  Clayton.     He  did  not  know  I  was 


The  Quakeress. 


near  by.  He  was  angry  with  me,  and  rightly,  per- 
haps, because  I  could  not  dance  with  him.  And  then 
thee  knows  Friends  are  abolitionists." 

"But  you  are  not !"  answered  Clayton. 

"I  do  not  know.  I  never  thought  much  about  it. 
I  am  just  a  poor  ignorant  girl,  not  used  to  talking 
of  such  things." 

"If  you  are  an  abolitionist,  then  I  am  one!"  he 
answered,  doggedly.  "You  are  right  whatever  you  are, 
and  what  you  are  I  am,  and  I  will  stand  by  you." 

"I  am  a  Friend,  and  Friends  do  not  quarrel.  They 
are  always  for  peace." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Clayton,  "and  no  doubt 
much  is  to  be  said  for  their  theories,  but  they  are  not 
understood  here.  You  are  my  guest.  I  should  be 
scorned  if  I  did  not  protect  and  defend  you.  My 
father  would  send  me  from  his  house." 

"Forgive  him,  for  my  sake." 

"No,  I  cannot.  I  would  die  to  save  you  from 
insult,  but  the  society  in  which  I  live  will  not  let  me 
forgive  him,  and  besides  I  don't  want  to  forgive  him." 

Abby  withheld  her  speech  for  a  moment,  and  then 
she  said : 

"And  yet,  O,  Clayton !  He  was  right,  He  only  was 
right,  who,  when  He  was  reviled,  reviled  not  again; 
who,  when  He  suffered,  threatened  not,  but  commit- 
ted Himself  to  Him  who  judgeth  righteously!  That 
is  the  only  way!  That  is  the  Friends'  way.  Thee 
will  forgive  Mr.  Thorn?" 

"No!"  said  Clayton,  almost  fiercely. 

The  tears  came  into  Abby's  eyes  and  dread  was  in 
her  heart;  dread  deepened  by  the  clear  evidence  that 
he  was  now  much  inflamed  by  the  drink  he  had  had. 


With  the  World's  People.      255 

"What  will  you  do  then?"  she  asked. 

"He  will  apologize  or  I  will  punish  him !" 

Abby  moaned  and,  speaking  as  to  herself,  said : 

"I  have  wandered  far  from  the  way  of  peace  in 
which  my  people  taught  me  to  walk  and  now  my  God 
will  punish  me  by  making  me  the  cause  of  violence ! 
Woe  to  me !  \Voe  to  me !  Woe  to  me  that  my  sin 
should  make  others  sin !" 

Then  she  began  to  sob. 

Clayton  took  her  hand  in  his  and  spoke  tenderly 
to  her. 

"You  are  an  angel.  You  are  responsible  for  noth- 
ing." 

Then  they  came  to  the  homestead  and  as  they  entered 
the  door  she  said  to  him  once  more : 

"Promise  me,  dear  Clayton,  that  you  will  not  quar- 
rel for  me.  O,  for  my  sake  promise  me  that !" 

But  he  kissed  her  hand  and  turned  away  when  he 
had  said : 

"May  all  your  dreams  be  peace,  my  dearest !  You 
shall  not  suffer  for  a  moment.  I  will  consider  the 
matter." 

As  the  girl  disappeared  through  the  doorway  Clay- 
ton  entered  the  carriage  again  and  drove  furiously 
back  to  the  Morris  house.  Thorn  was  still  there,  and 
Clayton,  summoning  two  of  his  friends  to  the  seclu- 
sion of  one  of  the  porches,  asked  them  to  challenge 
Thorn  to  fight  him  to-morrow  morning.  He  would 
have  the  matter  ended  before  the  women  should  have 
time  to  plead  or  protest. 

The  first  hours  of  the  morning  had  already  come 
when  Clayton  returned  to  Sassafras,  having  his  second 


The  Quakeress. 


and  a  surgeon  with  him.  They  entered  the  house 
quietly  and  for  a  time  sought  rest,  without  removing 
their  garments,  in  Clayton's  room. 

When  the  dawn  had  begun  the  three  men  went 
softly  out,  walking  across  the  lawn  to  the  river,  and 
entered  a  boat  which,  with  Clayton  and  his  second 
at  the  oars,  dropped  quickly  down  the  stream. 

Downward  it  went  for  a  mile  or  more  until  Par- 
ker's Bluff  was  reached,  and  here  the  party  landed 
and  climbed  the  path  to  the  top  of  the  bank.  They 
came  out  upon  the  famous  picnic  ground,  where  the 
grass-covered  plateau,  verging  upon  the  river  and 
with  three  sides  shut-in  by  woods  and  dense  thicket, 
offered  complete  solitude  and  perfect  silence. 

The  grey  light  of  the  dawn  was  being  replaced  by 
the  splendor  which  proclaimed  the  swift  coming  of 
the  sun,  and  the  unperturbed  surface  of  the  river  gave 
a  pale  reflex  of  the  lustre  of  the  sky. 

The  quiet  water  looked  cold,  and  indeed  the  air 
was  chill  and  the  dew  heavy  in  the  thick  grass.  Thus 
to  the  bravest  of  the  young  men,  weary  from  the 
revel  of  the  night,  the  scene  was  cheerless. 

But  Clayton  was  resolute,  and  when  Thorn  had 
come  upon  the  ground  by  the  path  through  the  wood 
and  his  second  had  conferred  with  Clayton's  second, 
the  distance  was  measured  and  the  stations  fixed. 
The  surgeon  opened  his  box.  The  pistols  were  load- 
ed. The  duellists  took  them  and  standing  face-to- 
face  at  measured  distance,  waited  for  the  word. 
Then,  just  as  the  sun  flung  its  first  blood-red  beam 
across  the  grass  and  upon  the  branches  of  the  great 
trees,  a  carriage  was  heard  coming  furiously  along 


With  the  World's  People.     257 

the  road  beyond  the  thicket  and  then  suddenly  it 
stopped. 

The  duellists  heard  it  but  gave  no  heed;  and  at 
the  signal  the  combatants  fired.  But,  as  the  report 
vibrated  through  the  air,  it  was  answered  by  a  shrill 
cry  of  terror  from  a  woman's  voice  in  the  thicket, 
and  the  combatants,  turning  their  smoking  weapons 
downward,  looked  inquiringly  toward  the  place 
whence  the  cry  came. 


When  Abby  parted  from  Clayton  and  entered  her 
room  a  candle  burned  upon  the  table  and  beneath  it 
lay  a  letter  that  had  come  in  the  evening's  mail  from 
George  Fotherly.  She  knew  the  writing  and  as  she 
took  the  letter  in  her  hand  she  caught  the  reflection 
of  her  figure  in  the  glass,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  hair 
in  some  disorder  and  her  gown  of  bright  colors 
tricked  out  with  ribbons  and  with  lace.  She  put  the 
letter  down  again,  feeling  that  the  kindest  words 
George  should  use  in  writing  to  her  would  seem  to 
rebuke  her.  But  she  was  indeed  eager  to  hear  from 
home,  and  so  opening  the  letter  she  sat  by  the  table 
to  read  it. 

Clearly  the  writer  had  not  suspected  that  Abby 
would  be  involved  in  the  furious  pleasures  of  the 
world's  people.  He  wrote  quietly  of  the  home  things 
and  the  home  people,  speaking  of  the  little  occur- 
rences that  had  engaged  the  attention  of  the  folks  of 
Connock;  giving  some  unimportant  news  of  the 
Meeting  and  commending  her  to  the  Father's  care 
with  an  expression  of  his  firm  confidence  that  amid 

17 


258  The  Quakeress. 

the  temptations  of  her  new  life  she  would  keep  her- 
self unspotted  from  the  world  and  faithful  to  the 
principles  of  Friends. 

The  flush  upon  Abby's  face  grew  higher  as  she 
read  the  letter.  It  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  purity 
and  tranquillity  with  which  she  was  familiar  and  which 
she  loved,  and  it  made  the  sensuous  dance,  the  pas- 
sionate music,  the  half  drunken  revelry  of  the  even- 
ing just  past  seem  almost  hideous.  She  could  not 
keep  back  the  tears  as  she  folded  the  letter  and  put 
it  down;  and  then  swiftly  she  tore  the  gay  dress  from 
her  shoulders  and  flung  it  upon  a  chair  as  if  some- 
how it  were  guilty  of  misleading  her. 

The  girl's  mind  dwelt  upon  the  sweet  serenity  of 
her  life  at  home  and  then,  turning  sharply  to  the 
scenes  which  she  had  witnessed  and  in  which  she  had 
figured  at  the  Morris  ball,  she  whispered  to  herself: 

"The  Meeting  would  disown  me  if  it  knew  what  I 
have  done,  and  George  would  turn  from  me,  per- 
haps!" 

Then  the  sense  of  her  deceitfulness  lay  heavily 
upon  her.  That  she  should  hold  her  membership 
upon  pretence  of  faithfulness  while  indeed  she  was 
faithless!  That  she  should  transgress  and  then  go 
home  to  pretend  there  had  been  no  transgression! 
That  she  should  wear  the  garb  and  claim  fellowship 
with  Friends  at  Plymouth,  when  she  had  clothed 
herself  with  finery  and  sanctioned  the  folly  and  wick- 
edness of  the  world's  people  at  Sassafras!  She  felt 
debased  and  fallen;  and  she  resolved — but  she  felt 
that  the  resolution  was  made  with  weakness — that 
she  would  no  more  permit  herself  to  be  defiled  by 


With  the  World's  People.     2S9 

these  evil  things.  She  would  go  home  at  once  and 
strive  to  regain  the  place  she  had  lost.  But  she  was 
conscious  that  her  experience  at  the  ball  could  not 
be  displaced  from  her  memory;  and  even  while  the 
thought  came  to  her,  her  mind  slipped  back  to  the 
brilliant  room  and  to  the  delicious  music  and  she  shut 
her  eyes  as  she  fancied  herself  again  in  Clayton's 
arms  whirling  about  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  of  happiness. 

When  she  had  undressed  and  had  blown  the  candle 
out,  the  time  came  to  pray,  and  she  tried  but  could 
not;  and  so  half  in  despair  she  sought  sleep  without 
it.  Sleep  would  not  come.  She  was  weary,  but  she 
carried  still  upon  her  nerves,  in  her  fast-beating 
heart  and  hot  head  the  excitement  of  the  ball-room. 
She  lay  wide  awake,  hearing  the  clock  in  the  hallway 
striking  hour  qfter  hour,  and  trying  to  rid  her  mind 
of  the  memory  of  the  evening.  But,  strive  as  she 
would  to  think  of  home,  of  the  things  in  her  life  that 
she  used  to  love,  of  the  events  of  her  childhood,  of 
religion  and  all  that  it  had  had  for  her,  her  mind 
always  came  back  again  to  the  ball-room,  to  the  music, 
to  the  dance,  to  the  wine-flushed  faces  of  the  men. 
As  the  hours  went  by  her  sense  of  guilt  became 
deeper,  and  more  and  more  repulsive  seemed  the 
pleasures  into  which  she  had  suffered  herself  to  be 
lured.  There  was  but  one  grain  of  sweetness  in  it 
all  and  that  was  her  love  for  Clayton,  but  even  this 
had  a  flavor  also  of  bitterness,  for  she  knew  in  the 
secret  recesses  of  her  soul  that  it  had  been  better  for 
her  peace  if  she  had  never  heard  his  name  or  seen  his 
face. 

She  sat  by  the  window  looking  out  over  the  lawn 


The  Quakeress. 


as  the  eastern  sky  became  whiter  and  more  white, 
when  she  was  startled  to  see  three  men  crossing  the 
lawn  to  the  river.  She  recognized  Clayton.  She  did 
not  at  once  guess  what  his  errand  might  be,  but  he 
had  not  gone  far  in  the  boat,  the  sound  of  whose  oars 
she  plainly  heard,  when  the  truth  thrust  itself  upon 
her  mind  and  she  began  to  tremble.  She  could  hardly 
refrain  from  crying  aloud,  her  pain  and  fear  were  so 
great.  But  she  restrained  herself,  and  with  the  swift 
resolution  of  a  mind  tense  with  strong  emotion,  she 
put  a  frock  about  her,  seized  a  cloak  and  ran  down 
the  stairs  and  out  to  the  stable-yard. 

There  with  difficulty  she  roused  one  of  the  men 
who  slept  in  a  loft  over  the  stable. 

"Quick,  quick,  Joseph  !  Master  Clayton  is  going 
to  be  killed!  Come  quickly.  Hitch  the  horse  and 
come  with  me.  Hurry,  Joseph!  O  please  hurry  or 
we  will  be  too  late  !" 

The  negro,  hardly  awake,  and  not  at  all  compre- 
hending the  nature  of  the  situation,  soon  had  the 
horse  harnessed  and  hitched  to  the  wagon. 

"Now  drive  just  as  fast  as  thee  can  —  very,  very 
fast,  Joseph,  down  the  river-road  to  the  picnic 
ground." 

Abby  guessed  where  Clayton  had  gone. 

The  driver  put  the  horse  to  his  speed  and  then  he 
said: 

"Missy,  what's  dat  you  say?  What's  dey  a  doin' 
to  Mars  Clayt?  What's  dat  you  tell  me?" 

"I'm  afraid,  Joseph,  he  is  going  to  fight  a  duel  and 
that  he  will  be  killed.  Don't  talk  about  it.  Hurry, 
hurry!" 


With  the  World's  People.     26r 

In  a  few  moments  the  right  place  upon  the  road 
was  reached  and  the  carriage  stopped.  Abby  climbed 
th«|  fence  with  reckless  haste  and  plunged  into  the 
thilket.  Thrusting  from  her  the  tangled  bushes  that 
torllher  hands  and  rent  her  garments,  Abby,  her  soul 
filloBwith  fear,  made  her  way  through  the  wood,  and 
whal  she  struggled  pistol-shots  were  heard  and  her 
wr(||ght  feelings  expressed  themselves  in  a  scream. 
She  fhought  slie  had  come  too  late. 

But  she  pushed  forward  through  the  brake  and 
presently  she  came  out  upon  the  grassy  plateau  drag- 
gled and  dishevelled,  but  triumphant;  for  a  glance 
told  her  she  had  reached  the  place  in  time. 

She  leaped  into  the  space  between  the  two  antag- 
onists, her  face  white  and  her  eyes  distended  with 
terror.  For  a  moment  she  could  not  speak.  She 
stood  and  waved  her  hands  as  if  to  thrust  the  young 
men  apart.  At  last  she  found  breath  for  utterance 
and  she  stammered: 

"No!  No!  No!  Thee— thee  will  kill— no— thee 
must  not — no — do  not  murder — O,  no !  no !  no !  O 
stop  them,  stop  them !" 

Then  she  put  her  hands  to  her  face  and  began  to 
weep  passionately,  standing  still  the  while,  until  again 
she  forced  herself  to  cry  out,  waving  her  hands  as  if 
she  would  dispel  some  awful  vision. 

"Not  murder,  Clayton — not  murder,  murder  for 
me !  O  not  that !  not  that !" 

A  shudder  ran  along  her  body  as  she  spoke ;  she  tried 
to  move  towards  Thorn,  but  she  could  not.  Her  force 
was  spent.  Thrusting  her  arms  outward  as  if  to  save 
herself,  she  fell  and  lay  unconscious  upon  the  grass. 

Clayton  leaped   to  her   side,    while    the   surgeon 


262 


The  Quakeress. 


brought  water  to  bathe  her  face;  and  Thorn  and  the 
other  men  stood  by  pitiful  and  remorseful. 

It  was  but  a  moment  before  the  pale  face  had  a 
flush  upon  it  and  the  eyes  opened.  Presently  she 
could  be  lifted  and  placed  upon  some  cushions  from 
the  boat.  She  looked  upon  the  men  about  her  as  if 
she  wondered  why  they  were  here  and  why  she  was 
here.  Her  memory  returned,  and  she  said  to  Clayton : 

"Thee  did  not— did  not—?" 

"No,  no !"  answered  Clayton  tenderly.  "No  other 
shot  has  been  fired.  We  are  all  here,  unhurt.  Think 
of  it  no  more." 

"I  will  go  home.     Help  me,  please." 

They  raised  her  from  the  ground  with  her  gar- 
ments wet  writh  the  dew.  But  she  would  not  move 
forward.  There  was  something  yet  for  her  to  say. 

She  turned  to  Thorn : 

"Thee  did  not  mean  to  speak  unkindly  of  me,  did 
thee?" 

"Unkindly  of  you,  Miss  Woolford?  How  could — " 

"But  if  thee  did  I  forgive  thee  wholly.  I  forgive 
thee  and  ask  complete  forgiveness  if  I  have  wronged 
thee  in  any  way.  I  never  did  so  wittingly." 

"You  never  did !"  said  Thorn. 

"And  I  need  God's  pardon  more  than  thine.  I  will 
pray  for  that  and  for  thee.  Thee  will  not  fight  again  ?" 

Thorn's  eyes  fell.    Then  looking  at  her  he  said : 

"That  does  not  rest  with  my  decision." 

"Clayton !"  she  said,  turning  to  him.  "There  will 
be  no  more?" 

"I  will  obey  your  wish,"  he  saic^f 

"Nay,  Clayton,  but  that  is  not  enough.  Thee  must 
forgive." 


"  She  Leaped  into  the  Space  Between  the  Antagonists" 


With  the  World's  People.      263 

Clayton  made  no  answer.  Abby's  eyes  filled  afresh 
with  tears  as  she  said: 

'"But  if  indeed  there  be  a  quarrel  is  it  not  mine? 
and  I  have  forgiven  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven.  Will 
thee  have  a  grievance  for  me  when  I  have  none  for 
myself?  Shall  I  not  decide?  Who  gave  thee  power 
to  put  my  will  aside  for  thine?  There  will  be  no 
peace  for  me  till  thee  has  yielded.  Take  my  hand, 
Mr.  Thorn,"  and  she  held  it  out  to  him. 

Thorn  clasped  it  and  falling  upon  one  knee  he 
reverently  touched  it  with  his  lips. 

"Now  thine,  Clayton !" 

She  stood  between  them,  her  strength  and  her 
courage  come  back,  holding  a  hand  of  each,  and  then 
she  said  with  her  face  uplifted : 

"I  thank  my  God  that  He  permitted  me  to  keep 
these  hands  from  stains  of  blood.  It  is  of  His  great 
mercy,  to  me,  the  chief  of  sinners;  and  I  pray  Him 
that  these  two  children  of  His,  these  honest  gentle- 
men, may  cast  themselves  on  His  mercy  for  the  past, 
and  know  the  power  of  His  love  for  all  the  future. 
This  man  is  thy  friend,  Clayton,"  she  said,  putting 
Clayton's  hand  in  Thorn's.  "Thee  will  cherish  him 
for  my  sake,  will  thee  not?" 

So  then,  she  bade  farewell  to  all  that  stood  by  and 
with  Clayton  and  his  second  walked  slowly  to  the 
carriage  leaning  upon  Clayton's  arm,  and  joy  shining 
through  the  tears  upon  her  face. 

Thorn  looked  after  her  and  when  she  had  gone  a 
little  space,  he  turned  to  his  companion  and  said : 

"A  man  might  die  for  a  woman  like  that!  God 
forgive  me.  God  bless  her !" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
Abby  Returns  to  Connock. 

Two  days  after  the  ball  Abby  brought  her  visit  to 
Sassafras  to  an  end.  She  had  intended  to  stay  longer, 
but  now  she  was  glad  to  turn  her  face  homeward  and 
to  escape  from  a  life  that  had  lost  nearly  all  its  charm 
for  her.  The  revelry  at  the  ball,  the  murderous  quar- 
rel between  Clayton  and  Thorn,  the  strange  suspicion 
that  seemed  to  attend  Dolly's  relations  with  Dr. 
Ramsey,  the  taint  of  slavery  and  of  disloyalty  that 
was  upon  the  community,  and  even  the  painfulness 
of  her  situation  with  regard  to  Clayton  combined  to 
fill  her  soul  with  longings  for  the  home  where  every- 
thing seemed  different  and  infinitely  better  than  the 
conditions  environing  her  at  Sassafras.  The  Harleys 
entreated  her  to  remain;  Dolly  was  eagerly  solicitous 
for  prolongation  of  her  visit,  and  Clayton  was  both 
grieved  and  angry  that  she  should  be  stubborn  in  her 
resolution  to  depart;  but  when  the  hour  came  for 
the  movement  toward  the  steamboat  wharf  she  was 
ready,  and  with  reluctance  Clayton  ordered  the  car- 
riage, while  he  and  Dolly  made  ready  to  accompany 
her  to  the  river. 

When  all  the  farewells  were  said  and  she  had,  with 
sincerity,  thanked  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harley  for  the  kind- 
ness of  their  hospitality,  she  drove  away  with  the 
young  people,  and  while  the  boat  lingered  at  the 
wharf  for  the  freight  that  was  to  be  put  upon  it, 

(264) 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock.    265 

Clayton,  alone  on  the  deck  with  her,  tried  to  extract 
from  her  a  promise  that  she  would  write  to  him 
often.  But  she  would  make  no  promises,  and  afterward 
when  she  had  parted  from  him  and  his  sister  and  the 
vessel  hurried  down  the  river  to  the  bay,  past  the 
plantations  and  the  clumps  of  woodland,  she  had  her 
mind  resolutely  set  to  break  the  ties  that  bound  net- 
to  Clayton  and  to  free  herself  from  what  she  now  felt 
more  than  ever  to  be  disgraceful  bondage. 

It  was  hard  to  form  such  a  resolution,  and  while 
she  strove  to  do  it  she  was  conscious  of  weakness  of 
will  that  gave  her  distrust  that  she  would  be  able  to 
repulse  her  lover  even  if  she  should  give  strong 
promise  to  herself  to  do  so. 

At  any  rate,  she  would  make  no  first  advance  to 
him,  and  if  he  should  address  himself  to  her  she 
would  consider  carefully  before  she  consented  to 
receive  him.  The  feeling  was  upon  her  to  fly  to  her 
mother  and  to  tell  her  the  whole  sorrowful  story  of 
her  troubles;  but  upon  reflection  she  found  that 
shame  for  herself  and  pity  for  the  mother  whose  bur- 
den was  heavy  enough  already  would  deter  her  from 
doing  that. 

It  was,  however,  she  felt,  a  clear  gain  to  have  got 
away  from  the  atmosphere  of  Sassafras,  and  it  was 
with  a  sense  of  grateful  relief  that  she  walked  upon 
the  upper-deck  of  the  steamer  in  the  cool  air  of  the 
evening  with  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  grey  house 
far  away  upon  the  Connock  hill.  Excepting  that  she 
still  could  not  suppress  her  love  for  Clayton,  Sassa- 
fras and  all  things  connected  with  it,  began  to  seem 
in  some  strange  way  hateful  to  her.  Her  purpose 


266  The  Quakeress. 

was  fixed  never  to  return  there  again  if  she  could 
help  it. 

When  she  came  from  her  sleeping-room  in  the 
morning  the  boat  had  passed  Chester  and  was  push- 
ing swiftly  up  the  river  toward  Philadelphia.  She 
wondered  if  George  would  be  at  the  wharf  to  meet 
her;  she  hoped  so,  for  she  was  much  drawn  to  him 
now  since  her  Southern  friends  had  lost  some  of  their 
attractiveness;  but  she  feared  he  would  not  have  had 
time  to  hear  from  the  letter  she  had  written  to  her 
mother  announcing  her  home-coming.  But  as  the 
boat  drew  in  to  the  wharf  the  first  person  she  saw 
standing  there  was  George  Fotherly,  and  when  the 
gang-plank  was  set  he  came  at  once  upon  the  vessel 
and  after  greeting  her  obtained  possession  of  her 
baggage. 

He  saw  in  her  bright  eyes  the  pleasure  she  felt  at 
meeting  him  and  it  filled  him  with  happiness.  He  led 
her  out  among  the  casks  and  bags  and  baskets  and 
boxes  across  the  pier  to  a  carriage  into  which  they 
were  about  to  get,  when  to  Abby's  amazement  Pene- 
lope presented  herself. 

At  first  Abby  did  not  understand  why  she  was 
there. 

"Why,   Penelope,"   she  exclaimed,   "how   did   thee 
get  here?    Thee  was  not  on  the  boat ?" 
"Yes'm,"  answered  the  girl. 
"But,  how— did  Miss  Dolly  tell  thee— to— to—  ?" 
"I  runned  away,  Missy,  jes's  I  said  I  would." 
"And  thee  came  on  the  boat?    I  did  not  see  thee." 
"No,   missy,   I  was  hidin'  down  among  de  boxes 
and  truck  and  pretty  near  dead  for  want  o'  bref  an' 
sleep." 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock.    267 

Abby  was  perplexed. 

"She  is  Dolly's  servant,"  said  Abby  to  George. 
"What  shall  we  do  with  her?  It  would  seem  dread- 
ful to  the  Harleys  if  I  should  take  her  to  our  house." 

"Really,"  answered  George,  "there  seems  to  be 
no  help  for  it.  Thee  cannot  have  her  stay  hungry  and 
penniless  in  a  strange  city.  Let  her  come  with  us 
and  we  can  then  decide  what  had  better  be  done." 

In  his  heart  George  did  not  feel  sorry  for  the  Har- 
leys and  he  had  no  purpose  to  try  to  do  anything 
with  Penelope  but  to  keep  her  in  freedom. 

He  put  her  into  the  cab  with  himself  and  Abby  and 
soon  all  three  of  them  were  on  the  train  for  Connock 
where  Rachel  was 'waiting  with  a  warm  and  tearful 
welcome,  and  where  Penelope,  with  a  smiling  face, 
was  taken  to  the  kitchen  and  to  a  hearty  breakfast. 
She  had  no  notion  to  embarrass  the  Woolfords  or 
to  take  the  risk  that  Mrs.  Ponder  would  recognize 
her  and  write  to  Sassafras  about  her.  In  a  few  hours 
she  had  disappeared  from  the  grey  house  and  long 
afterward,  when  slavery  was  no  longer  an  institution 
in  Maryland,  Abby  heard  of  her  as  a  servant  in  a 
Quaker  family  in  another  county. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Ponder  came  over  to  the  grey  house 
in  the  evening  of  the  day  of  Abby's  return  and  both 
were  glad  to  have  her  with  them  again.  Mrs.  Pon- 
der asked  her  minutely  about  her  visit,  and  about  all 
the  members  of  her  sister's  family,  and  Abby  told 
her  everything  but  those  things  she  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  tell  and  to  have  Mrs.  Ponder  hear. 

Mrs.  Ponder  was  very  shrewd,  and  although  Abby 
spoke  warmly  of  the  pleasure  that  had  attended  her 


268  The  Quakeress. 

visit  to  Sassafras,  the  minister's  wife  was  sure  some- 
thing had  happened  which  had  left  a  flavor  of  bitter- 
ness in  the  girl's  mind. 

"They  are  most  kind  and  lovable  people,"  she  said, 
"and  I  was  sure  you  would  have  a  good  time.  But, 
of  course,  my  dear,  they  are  very  different  in  many 
ways  from  the  folks  about  here.  Even  sister  has 
changed  greatly  in  her  views  and  methods  since  she 
married  into  a  Southern  family." 

"Changed  completely,"  said  Dr.  Ponder.  "Don't 
you  remember,  Isabel,  the  time  she  stayed  with  us 
while  I  was  in  my  first  parish,  she  insisted  upon 
becoming  a  member  of  the  woman's  anti-slavery 
society?  and  now  she  actually  owns  slaves  and  glories 
in  it." 

"She  was  only  a  young  and  foolish  girl  then,  birdie, 
and  it  is  hardly  fair  to  hold  her  seriously  respon- 
sible for  her  actions.  And  very  naturally,  I  think, 
when  she  married  she  adopted  her  husband's  views 
and  went  to  extremes  in  her  opinions,  as  women 
often  do." 

"Always  do !"  said  Dr.  Ponder,  with  emphasis. 

"No,  not  always,  birdie !  You  can't  reasonably  say 
that  I  am  extreme  about  anything,  unless  it  be  my 
church  views.  And  then  I  think  we  ought  to  remem- 
ber that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  much  to  be  said 
for  the  theory  so  firmly  held  by  sister  that  the  curse 
placed  upon  Ham  as  recorded  in  the  Scriptures  docs 
seem  to  give  some  sort  of  warrant  for  human  slavery." 

"There  is  absolutely  nothing  in  it!  I  have  care- 
fully examined  the  entire  subject,  and  I  positively 
deny  the  whole  Ham  proposition." 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock.    269 

"Still,  birdie,  I  really  do  recall  the  sermon  you 
preached  years  ago  in  your  first  parish  rather  sustain- 
ing the  proposition,  and  I  remember  the  earnestness 
and  heartiness  with  which  Senator  Wigger,  who  was 
a  Democrat,  complimented  you  upon  it" 

"That  was  before  I  had  studied  the  matter  thor- 
oughly; and  I  was  very  young  and  not  wise;  and  at 
any  rate,  my  dear,  my  plan  has  always  been  to  let 
by-gones  be  by-gones.  Tell  me,  Abby,  something 
about  the  dear  old  church  near  to  Sassafras,  planted 
two  hundred  years  ago  by  the  missionary  zeal  of 
the  Mother  Church  in  England." 

But,  alas!  Abby  had  almost  nothing  to  say  about 
the  Sassafras  church.  She  had  been  there  once,  and 
thought  the  service  very  dull  and  the  discolored  spit- 
toons in  the  pews  very  dreadful,  and  besides,  her 
interest  had  been  centered  during  all  the  time  of  her 
visit  upon  things  at  Sassafras  that  were  wholly  apart 
from  ecclesiastical  influences. 

The  next  morning  Abby  took  up  with  new  relish 
the  household  duties  she  had  been  used  to  perform  and 
soon  she  had  settled  down  once  more  to  the  routine 
of  common  life  which  she  had  followed  all  her  days 
with  tranquillity  and  satisfaction.  The  time  went 
quickly  by,  and  before  long  her  hope  that  Clayton 
would  not  write  to  her  was  displaced  by  wonder  that 
he  did  not  write,  and  the  wonder  did  not  have  time 
to  grow  before  a  long  letter  from  him  came  to  her. 

She  was  disturbed  by  the  eagerness  with  which  she 
read  it  and  she  hid  it  away  with  a  resolution  that  she 
would  not  answer  it.  Then  she  changed  her  mind 
and  determined  to  send  an  answer  after  a  long  delay. 


The  Quakeress. 


When  she  had  read  the  letter  for  the  tenth  time,  she 
found  herself  pitying  Clayton  for  the  distress  he 
would  suffer  because  of  her  silence  and  she  resolved 
to  pen  an  answer  to-morrow.  That  night  another 
letter,  pleading  and  passionate,  came  from  him,  and 
she  wrote  to  him,  with  what  she  thought  dignified 
reserve,  before  she  went  to  bed. 

Abby's  affected  coldness  had  no  chilling  influence 
upon  Clayton;  it  gave  him  some  uneasiness  and  there- 
fore it  intensified  the  fervor  of  the  response  that 
speedily  came  to  her.  Thereafter  there  was  no  pre- 
tence that  she  was  not  glad  to  hear  from  him  and 
letters  went  to  and  fro  several  times  a  week;  but 
Abby  carefully  hid  from  her  mother  the  fact  that  she 
was  in  correspondence  with  Clayton. 

Epistolary  love-making  has  its  delights,  but  they 
are  inferior  to  the  methods  which  permit  eye-to-eye 
and  hand-to-hand,  and  before  the  autumn  was  far 
advanced  Clayton  had  striven  to  devise  some  plan  which 
would  enable  him  to  come  to  Connock  and  to  remain 
there.  The  call  of  his  beloved  Southland,  of  which 
he  often  talked  somewhat  vain-gloriously,  seemed  to 
have  lost  much  of  its  imperiousness  now  that  the 
impulses  of  his  affection  urged  him  to  travel  northward. 

Christmas  was  not  far  off  when  he  wrote  to  Abby 
that  he  had  obtained  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of  one 
of  the  great  iron-mills  that  lie  along  the  levels  of  the 
wide  meadows  by  the  river  at  the  foot  of  the  Con- 
nock  hill,  and  that  he  should  come  to  the  town  to 
take  the  place  before  the  year  was  out.  He  explained 
that  it  was  necessarily  repugnant  to  the  feelings  of  a 
Southern  gentleman  to  accept  a  position  so  humble, 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock.    271 

especially  when  honor  awaited  him  upon  the  field  of 
glory  in  Virginia,  but  this,  he  urged,  was  a  part  of 
the  large  sacrifice  he  was  prepared  to  make  that  he 
might  be  near  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

When  Clayton  came  to  the  town  and  took  lodg- 
ings he  had  proposed  to  himself  that  he  would 
become  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  grey  house;  but  Abby 
was  afraid  to  have  it  so,  and  when  her  parents 
learned  that  he  was  to  live  in  Connock  and  discov- 
ered his  fondness  for  Abby's  society,  they  were  dis- 
turbed and  warned  the  girl  to  act  circumspectly 
with  him.  Rachel  did  not  like  him  as  a  man,  and 
she  and  Isaac  were  strongly  unwilling  that  Abby 
should  become  interested  in  a  possible  suitor  who 
was  not  a  member  of  their  own  Society;  but  Clayton 
was  Mrs.  Ponder's  nephew,  and  must  frequently 
visit  the  parsonage  and  they  were  unwilling  peremp- 
torily to  forbid  his  coming  to  see  Abby  lest  they 
might  give  offence  to  their  next  door  neighbor,  whose 
kind  offices  to  them  were  given  often  and  with  genuine 
feelings  of  friendship. 

So  Clayton  was  advised  by  Abby  that  in  her  home 
their  intercourse  could  not  be  unrestrained,  and 
almost  inevitably  Abby,  entreated  to  meet  her  lover 
surreptitiously,  at  last  consented.  She  took  many 
long  walks  in  the  wintry  weather  and  found-  him 
waiting  for  her;  he  came  to  the  parsonage  often  and 
had  uninterrupted  opportunity  for  free  talk  with 
her;  she  crept  into  the  church  sometimes  when  he 
was  drawn  there  upon  the  pretext  that  he  would 
practice  upon  the  organ,  and  sometimes  he  con- 
trived to  discover  when  she  had  an  errand  to  the 


272 


The  Quakeress. 


city  and  to  find  an  excuse  for  riding  beside  her  in 
the  train. 

Two  or  three  times  Clayton  hired  a  horse  and 
wagon  and  Abby  would  walk  across  the  river-bridge 
and  there  get  into  the  vehicle  with  him  and  for  an 
hour  or  two  drive  about  among  the  hills. 

But  in  a  community  like  Connock  proceedings 
of  this  kind  cannot  well  escape  publicity.  Before 
long  the  curious  observers  of  their  neighbors'  move- 
ments began  to  note  the  frequency  of  Abby's 
appearances  in  Clayton's  company,  and  there  were 
some  members  of  the  Meeting  who  were  so  disturbed 
by  it  that  they  considered  if  they  should  not  have  a 
committee  call  upon  Isaac  and  Rachel  Woolford  to 
counsel  them  against  permitting  this  promising 
young  Friend,  their  daughter,  to  become  too  much 
involved  with  an  admirer  who  belonged,  not  only 
with  the  world's  people,  but  with  the  guilty  owners 
of  African  slaves.  But  with  quite  characteristic  pru- 
dence action  upon  the  matter  was  postponed  until 
the  reasons  for  such  intermeddling  with  Isaac's  fam- 
ily affairs  should  seem  to  be  more  imperative. 

One  sunny  afternoon  in  early  February  Clayton 
took  Abby  for  a  drive  up  the  hillside  on  the  road 
that  led  in  a  roundabout  way  to  George  Fotherly's 
farm.  It  was  not  much  traveled  excepting  in  the 
winter-time,  for  there  was  a  better  road  with  easier 
grades  through  the  Aramink  glen;  but  when  the 
winter  came  it  always  happened  that  the  snow  lay 
deep  in  the  glen,  or  else,  if  the  rain  came  heavily 
upon  it,  it  turned  to  ice  which  covered  all  the  road- 
way so  that  horsemen  feared  it  and  with  roughened 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock.    273 

shoes  upon  their  beasts,  went  cautiously.  In  such  a 
time  the  brook  that  tumbled  through  the  pass  had 
fierceness  as  it  ran  along  the  rocks,  whirling  itself 
about  the  crookedness  of  the  channel,  flinging  itself 
here  and  there  until  the  twigs  of  the  bushes,  the  tops 
of  the  great  stones,  and  even  the  trunks  of  the  trees 
that  stood  near  the  brook  were  white  with  a  coating 
of  ice. 

Thus  the  hillside  road,  where  the  sun  always  beat, 
was  preferred  by  careful  drivers  at  this  season  of  the 
year  and,  besides,  the  view  of  the  valley  and  the 
river  and  all  the  country  around  Connock  was  very 
fine  and  the  road  ran  right  through  the  woods  that 
covered  the  hill  from  base  to  summit. 

Often  when  George  and  Abby  had  looked  across 
from  the  garden  of  the  grey  house  they  had  said  they 
were  not  sure  if  the  hills  were  not  loveliest  in  the 
winter-time.  For  when  the  leaves  were  off  and  the 
snow  lay  all  over  the  surfaces  beneath  the  trees  there 
were  revelations  that  the  leafy  summer  would  not 
permit.  The  white  light  developed  every  twist  of 
the  trunks  of  the  trees,  every  tangle  of  the  branches, 
every  angle  of  their  inclination.  Seen  from  afar,  all 
the  trees  but  those  at  the  very  top  were  in  black  out- 
line against  the  snow  and  the  hills  seemed  somehow 
different  in  their  frank  nakedness  under  the  flood  of 
light  from  what  they  had  done  with  the  summer  foli- 
age. One  could  see  the  outline  of  each  summit 
clearly  as  it  rose  from  the  West  with  a  rounded  crest 
and  dipped  to  the  East  with  a  feathery  crown  of 
trees ;  and  the  passes  that  lay  between  them  were 
robbed  of  all  their  mystery,  but  clothed  with  a  novel 

18 


274 


The  Quakeress. 


and  wonderful  beauty  as  the  snow  permitted  their 
farthest  and  deepest  depths  to  be  perceived  by  him 
who  looked  from  the  Connock  hills  across  the  river. 

The  lovers  found  the  drive  delightful  and  they 
went  farther  from  home  than  was  intended,  so  that 
the  shadows  of  the  swift-falling  night  were  about 
them  as  they  turned  into  the  hillside  road  among  the 
trees  on  their  way  downward  toward  Connock. 

There  is  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road  where  it  sets  off 
to  the  southward,  and  here  the  front-wheel  of  Clay- 
ton's carriage  caught  in  a  rut  and  one  of  the  springs 
was  broken.  He  stopped  the  horse  and  got  out  to 
try  to  fix  the  spring,  and  Abby,  sitting  in  the  car- 
riage, became  impatient  and  alarmed  at  the  increas- 
ing darkness.  How,  she  thought,  should  she  account 
to  her  father  and  mother  for  this  strange  absence  from 
home  at  a  late  hour  ? 

Clayton  found  the  task  of  making  repairs  there  in 
the  gloom  not  easy,  and  while  he  labored  with  it,  Abby 
said  to  him : 

"Some  one  is  coming  up  the  road,  and  I  am  sure 
he  will  help  you." 

The  other  carriage  came  near,  and  Clayton,  step- 
ping out  towards  it,  said: 

"I  have  broken  something  and  I  can't  quite  get  it 
right.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  lend  me  a  hand?" 

"Surely!"  responded  the  stranger,  stopping  his 
horse,  fastening  the  lines  to  the  dash-board  and  leap- 
ing to  the  ground. 

Abby's  heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment  when 
she  heard  the  voice  and  then  recognized  the  form  of 
George  Fotherly.  That  was  the  one  encounter  she 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock.    27s 

had  hoped  to  avoid  in  her  rambles  with  Clayton. 
George  affected  not  to  see  her  and  the  increasing 
darkness  gave  him  quite  a  sufficient  excuse  for  his 
neglect;  but  she  was  certain  he  knew  her  and  certain 
that  he  would  be  cruelly  hurt  because  he  had  found 
her  in  such  a  place  in  such  company. 

George  spoke  to  Clayton  as  to  an  acquaintance 
and  then,  taking  some  bits  of  rope  from  his  own  car- 
riage, he  fixed  the  broken  spring  in  a  few  moments 
in  such  fashion  that  Clayton  could  move  slowly  for- 
ward. Mounting  to  his  own  wagon  he  said  farewell 
and  drove  away,  leaving  Abby,  full  of  troubled 
thoughts,  to  go  with  Clayton. 

Since  Clayton  'came  to  Connock  to  stay  George 
had  never  seen  him  at  the  grey  house  nor  in  Abby's 
company,  and  though  he  still  dreaded  that  Abby 
cared  for  the  Southerner,  his  fears  had  been  in  a 
measure  lulled  and  his  hope  for  his  own  cause 
strengthened.  Now,  however,  as  he  drove  up  the 
hill  to  the  farm  new  light  had  come  to  him  and  he 
entered  his  house  with  rage  and  despair  in  his 
heart. 

All  through  the  night  he  thought  of  the  girl  he 
loved  so  much  and  of  the  clear  evidence  he  now  had 
of  her  strong  favor  for  the  stranger,  and  to  the  bit- 
terness of  his  disappointment  was  added  the  sharp 
pain  of  the  conviction  that  the  man  was  wholly 
unworthy  of  her. 

Waking  from  broken  sleep  in  the  morning,  George 
began  to  consider  if  something  could  not  be  done, 
not  for  his  sake,  but  for  Abby's  sake,  to  separate  her 
from  Clayton.  And  it  so  happened  that  while  he  sat 


276  The  Quakeress. 

at  the  breakfast-table  meditating  upon  the  subject, 
his  man  came  in  with  the  mail  from  the  Connock 
post  office.  Among  the  letters  was  one  from  a 
Friend  who  lived  in  the  country-town  not  many 
miles  away  from  the  Sassafras  plantation — a  Friend 
known  to  George  by  name  and  a  man  of  high  char- 
acter. It  read  thus: 

"Dear  Friend :  I  am  moved  to  write  to  thee  about 
a  matter  which  may  concern  some  of  thy  neighbors 
and  friends,  and  I  do  so  with  reluctance  because  I 
am  not  sure  that  there  is  any  peril  to  thy  friends  or 
that  I  have  judged  rightly  in  presuming  to  intrude 
myself  in  other  people's  business.  But  I  know  I 
may  trust  thy  wise  discretion  and  so  I  ask  thee  to 
maintain  silence  and  to  destroy  this  letter  if  in  thy 
judgment  I  am  mistaken.  Late  in  the  summer  a 
dear  young  Friend,  daughter  of  Isaac  Woolford,  of 
Connock,  whom  once  I  knew,  visited  the  Sassafras 
plantation  near  to  us,  and  was  much  involved,  I  fear, 
in  the  frivolous  amusements  of  the  world's  people. 
This  may  have  concerned  me,  but  I  should  have  held 
my  peace  had  not  rumor  in  our  neighborhood  cou- 
pled her  name  with  that  of  the  son  of  the  Sassafras 
people  as  a  possible  suitor  for  her  hand.  This  same 
rumor,  widely  circulated  here,  declares  that  the 
young  man  was  married  some  time  ago  in  Mexico 
and  that  his  wife  is  still  living  there.  He  has  striven 
to  keep  his  marriage  secret,  and  it  is  not  known,  I 
learn,  even  to  his  father  and  mother;  but  I  think 
Isaac  Woolford  should  hear  of  the  report  if  it  be 
true  that  the  youth  has  gone  to  Connock  and  persists 


Abby  Returns  to  Connock 


277 


in  courting  his  daughter;  and  I  leave  it  to  thee  to 
determine  whether  the  conditions  will  warrant  thee  in 
carrying  it  to  him.    With  much  esteem, 
Thy  friend, 


To  George  Fotherly. 

When  George  had  read  the  letter  he  folded  it  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  went  out  upon  his 
porch  and  thence  to  his  duties  among  the  farm  build- 
ings, meaning  to  consider  what  he  should  do  with 
this  remarkable  revelation. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
At  Bay. 

GEORGE'S  first  feeling,  when  he  examined  the  let- 
ter, was  of  exultation.  If  it  were  true  that  Clayton 
already  had  a  wife,  then  there  was  better  promise 
than  he  had  dared  to  hope  that  Abby  might  be  his 
wife.  And  as  he  thought  upon  Clayton's  pursuit  of 
the  girl  who  was  presumably  ignorant  of  the  mar- 
riage, George's  anger  grew  and  he  called  Clayton  a 
villain  whom  to  expose  and  denounce  was  an  imper- 
ative duty. 

Then,  as  he  meditated  upon  the  matter,  he  per- 
ceived that  the  time  had  not  yet  come  for  harsh 
judgment  or  for  hostile  action.  The  Friend  in 
Maryland  reported  nothing  but  rumor,  confessing 
an  obligation  to  proceed  cautiously.  Before  he 
could  venture  to  come  between  Abby  and  the  young 
Southerner  he  must  discover  some  means  by  which 
the  truth  should  be  clearly  made  known  and  the  serious 
question  at  once  presented  itself  how  this  was  t$>  be 
done  in  a  safe  and  inoffensive  manner. 

He  found  that  he  dare  not  speak  to  Abby  about  it 
lest  he  should  seem  to  her  impelled  by  mean  jealousy, 
and  he  felt  sure  that,  if  report  had  wronged  Clayton, 
he,  George,  would  appear  contemptible  to  the  girl 
and  finally  ruin  his  own  cause.  He  shrank  also  from 
presenting  the  matter  in  any  form  to  Isaac  and 
Rachel  Woolford.  No  doubt  they  would  be  grateful 

(278) 


At  Bay.  279 

to  him  for  any  kind  of  suggestion  that  would  sepa- 
rate Abby  from  a  suitor  who  must  be  unwelcome  to 
them,  but  if  he  could  not  justify  his  interference  by 
incontrovertible  evidence  he  might  be  discredited 
by  them  also  and  made  ashamed  of  such  an  attack 
upon  an  innocent  man. 

The  thought  came  to  him  that  he  might  sound 
Doctor  and  Mrs.  Ponder  respecting  Clayton's  antece- 
dents; but  probably  they  knew  nothing  of  his  mar- 
riage if  he  were  married,  and  in  any  case  they  would 
think  it  strange  that  he  should  manifest  curiosity  about 
Clayton's  personal  matters. 

Finally  it  seemed  to  George  that  the  manly  thing 
and  the  safe  thing  to  do  would  be  to  seek  for  Clayton 
and  to  talk  with  him  in  such  a  way  as  to  induce  him 
to  give  some  sign  that  the  report  about  his  marriage 
had  a  basis  of  fact.  This  task  would  be  neither  easy 
nor  agreeable,  but  George  resolved  to  undertake  it 
under  conditions  that  he  believed  would  not  be 
offensive  to  the  Southerner  if  Clayton  was  an  inno- 
cent man. 

It  was  now  beyond  doubt  he  thought,  that  Abby 
really  cared  for  Clayton.  He  had  hoped  it  was  not 
so,  and  for  a  good  while  he  had  found  little  difficulty 
in  attributing  to  some  other  cause  than  love  for  Clay- 
ton the  girl's  apparent  fondness  for  his  company. 
But  since  her  return  from  Maryland  the  proofs  were 
many  that  there  had  been  love-passages  between 
them  and  George  was  convinced  that  the  door  of 
hope  had  been  finally  closed  to  him  while  Abby's 
sojourn  in  Sassafras  had  given  to  Clayton  the  enor- 
mous advantage  of  propinquity.  If,  then,  Abby 


280  The  Quakeress. 

really  loved  the  man,  and  the  man  were  unmarried 
and  of  fine  enough  character  to  be  fit  for  her,  was  it 
not  his  duty  to  sacrifice  himself  for  her  sake,  and, 
neglecting  the  circumstance  that  Clayton  was  not  a 
Friend,  to  stand  aside  that  Abby  might  have  her 
heart's  desire?  At  first  George  could  hardly  bring 
himself  to  accept  this  view  of  the  matter;  but  from 
the  depths  of  his  soul  he  did  desire  happiness  for 
Abby  and  he  knew  that  it  would  not  come  to  her  if 
she  had  strong  affection  for  Clayton  and  were  forced 
to  give  him  up. 

After  much  wrestling  with  himself  and  with  many 
doubts  and  fears  lest  the  course  he  proposed  to  take 
should  not  after  all  be  wise,  he  determined  to  talk 
frankly  with  Clayton.  To  this  end  he  wrote  to  the 
youth  and  a  meeting  was  arranged  in  the  parlor  of 
Clayton's  boarding-house. 

George's  manner  was  quiet  as  he  began  to  speak 
upon  the  subject  that  lay  upon  his  mind,  but  he  was 
not  at  ease.  He  found  the  matter  difficult  for  speech 
and  besides  he  had  the  heart-ache. 

"Will  thee  forgive  me,  Friend  Harley,"  he  said, 
"if  I  make  bold  to  talk  to  thee  of  a  matter  of  some 
delicacy  that  seems  to  lie  between  thee  and  me?" 

"What  is  it?"  responded  Clayton,  setting  his  mind 
to  defiance,  for  he  suspected  that  George  would 
speak  to  him  of  Abby.  . 

"Thee  cannot  think  that  I  could  help  perceiving 
thy  partiality  for  Abigail  Woolford,  or  that  she 
seems  to  feel  something  more  than  simple  friendli- 
ness for  thee." 

"How  can  I  tell  what  you  have  perceived?" 


At  Bay. 


281 


"I  have  known  her,"  continued  George,  not  notic- 
ing the  unpleasantness  of  this  response,  "since  she 
was  a  little  child.  For  many  years  I  have  been  much 
in  her  company;  often  we  have  worshiped  together, 
and  her  father  and  mother  have  been  my  near  friends 
and  have  welcomed  me  to  their  house.  If  I  cared 
only  for  them  I  could  not  have  looked  with  indiffer- 
ence upon  any  friendship  she  should  form;  but  I  do 
not  care  alone  for  them;  I  care  much  for  her." 

"Well?" 

"I  had  always  thought  that  she  regarded  me  with 
favor,  and  I  think  she  did  until  she  met  thee;  but 
now — " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Clayton,  "but  in  my  country 
gentlemen  do  not  talk  of  such  matters  freely  with 
other  men." 

"It  is  not  easier  for  me  than  for  thee,"  said  George, 
"to  talk  openly  of  a  thing  so  sacred,  and  if  I  compel 
myself  to  do  it  now,  it  is  because  I  owe  something 
to  her  as  well  as  to  myself.  I  tell  thee  plainly  that  I 
had  hoped  to  make  her  my  wife." 

Clayton  felt  a  little  pang  of  sorrow  for  this  simple- 
hearted  man;  and  he  answered: 

"Still  she  has  not  promised  you,  and  many  a  man 
before  you  has  deceived  himself  in  such  matters." 

"I  know  it,"  responded  George.  "I  have  no 
rights,  perhaps  I  have  no  claim  to  consideration,  in 
the  case.  I  do  not  make  complaint,  nor  would  I  turn 
her  from  her  heart's  desire  if  I  could,  unless — unless 
it  were  to  protect  her  from  hurt." 

"You  imagine  that  I  would  hurt  her,  do  you?" 

"I   cannot  say  that.     It   seems  to  me  that  she 


282  The  Quakeress. 

might  be  happier  if  she  should  retain  fellowship  with 
her  own  people;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  trust 
myself  to  form  a  fair  impartial  judgment.  But  when 
I  saw  that  she  was  drawn  to  thee  in  some  degree,  I 
could  not  help  considering  if  indeed  thee  was  wholly 
worthy  of  her.  Thee  will  forgive  me  for  saying 
that?" 

"Who  is  to  be  the  judge  of  my  worthiness  or 
unworthiness  if  she  cares  for  me  and  I  care  for  her? 
We  can  hardly  refer  the  matter  to  you." 

George  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
answered : 

"I  will  not  presume  to  judge  thee,  but  thee  will 
not  think  harshly  of  me  if  I  ask  thee  severely  to  judge 
thyself." 

"I  will  permit  no  meddling,"  answered  Clayton 
sharply.  He  felt  that  this  quiet  Quaker  was  reaching 
very  dexterously  for  the  weak  place  in  his  armor. 

"It  is  a  strange  case  we  are  in,"  said  George,  "and 
the  way  is  not  clear  to  me;  but  I  am  sure  thee  loves 
the  girl,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  to  thee  that  I 
love  her." 

"The  choice  then  is  with  the  woman,  and  that  will 
end  it." 

"Yes,"  answered  George,  "her  decision  will  end 
it,  but  may  I  say  to  thee  with  much  courtesy  that  a 
decision  so  important  should  be  made  with  full 
knowledge?  Abigail  knows  my  life  to  its  very  centre. 
She  has  always  known  it.  Is  thy  life  clean  or  does 
thee  hide  something  from  her?" 

Clayton  made  an  exclamation  of  impatience  and 
anger. 


At  Bay.  283 

"I  will  tell  thee  why  I  ask  that.  It  is  because  I 
am  ready  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  her  which  I  cannot 
express  in  words.  It  is  easy  to  say  I  would  cut  off 
that  hand  for  her,"  and  the  farmer  thrust  out  his 
huge  brown  right-hand,  "or  that  I  would  give  my 
life  for  her  peace  if  God  should  call  me  to  that  sur- 
render. Such  things  have  been  said  many  times. 
I  do  not  speak  idly,  but  from  my  soul,  as  in  God's 
presence,  when  I  say  that  to  give  her  up  to  thee 
would  be  a  more  terrible  sacrifice;  and  yet  I  will  do 
that  and  carry  desolation  in  my  soul  to  the  end  of 
my  life  if  she  loves  thee  and  thee  is  worthy  of  her. 
But  is  it  too  much  to  require  of  thee,  before  I  put 
the  knife  to  my  heart,  that  thee  tell  the  fair  truth 
about  thyself?  Is  thee  capable  of  such  sacrifice  for 
her?  Thee  may  be,  but  forgive  me  if  I  doubt  it." 

"Let  us  end  this  folly,"  exclaimed  Clayton,  rising. 
George  sat  still,  his  face  overclouded. 

"Sit  down !"  he  said  fiercely,  and  Clayton  obeyed, 
surprising  himself  by  obeying. 

George  looked  steadfastly  at  him  and  Clayton 
quailed  beneath  his  eyes. 

"I  have  spoken  gently  with  thee,"  said  George,  his 
voice  having  a  new  sternness,  "but  now  I  must  be 
less  considerate.  Thee  is  not  an  honest  man !" 

Clayton  started  as  if  to  leap  upon  him;  but  he 
restrained  himself.  Had  George  put  forth  his  strength 
he  could  have  crushed  the  smaller  man  with  those 
great  arms  of  his.  But  Clayton  did  not  fear  his  phy- 
sical strength.  He  cowered  before  the  belief  that 
George  knew  his  secret. 

"Your  peace  principles  protect  you  in  your  inso- 
lence," said  Clayton  with  a  show  of  courage. 


284  The  Quakeress. 

"I  can  look  right  into  thy  soul  and  perceive  that 
thee  is  not  an  honest  man,"  said  George,  calmly. 

"Preachers  and  women,"  said  Clayton,  "are  always 
privileged  to  offer  insult  with  impunity." 

"Thy  heart  is  not  right  in  the  sight  of  God," 
answered  George,  "and  thy  hands  are  not  clean.  I 
will  make  no  sacrifice  that  will  permit  evil  to  triumph 
with  thee." 

"See  here!"  exclaimed  Clayton,  desperately.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  know,  or  what  you  think  you 
know,  and  I  don't  care.  I  will  have  no  more  lectur- 
ing or  snivelling  from  you.  Miss  Woolford  knows 
the  very  worst  about  me  that  she  can  know  and  if 
she  is  satisfied  with  me  it  is  a  matter  of  complete 
indifference  to  me  whether  you  are  satisfied  or  not.  A 
rejected  suitor  never  is  satisfied.  I  can  pity  you, 
but  I  can't  stand  your  preaching  or  your  imperti- 
nence. We  had  better  part." 

"Is  thee  her  suitor?" 

"Never  mind  whether  I  am  or  not." 

"Thee  is  already  a  married  man.  Thee  is  infa- 
mous!" 

"You're  a  fool!"  said  Clayton,  turning  and  walk- 
ing from  the  room. 

There  could  be  no  longer  any  question  concerning 
the  truth  of  the  report  of  Clayton's  marriage  and 
George  left  the  house  hot  with  anger  against  the 
man  who  was  dealing  so  basely  with  Abby.  That 
George  should  interpose  in  some  peremptory  fashion 
to  thrust  the  Southerner  away  from  the  girl  finally 
and  forever  was  a  sacred  obligation  to  her  and  to  her 
parents;  but  he  was  not  a  little  puzzled  to  know  just 
how  the  feat  might  be  accomplished. 


At  Bay.  285 

That  he  would  accomplish  it,  Clayton,  for  his  part, 
was  confident.  The  secret  was  out,  and  Clayton 
knew  very  well  that  even  if  George  Fotherly  had  not 
been  in  love  with  Abby  his  relations  with  her  parents 
and  the  Friends'  Society,  no  less  than  his  desire  to 
protect  an  innocent  girl  from  evil,  would  impel  him 
to  make  the  fact  of  Clayton's  marriage  known. 

The  young  man  was  not  happy  at  the  prospect. 
In  truth,  he  was  deeply  ashamed  to  think  that 
George  was  capable  of  vast  sacrifice  while  he  was 
wickedly  selfish.  He  began  to  consider  if  he  should 
not  surrender  Abby  and  his  place  in  the  mill  and  all 
his  hopes,  and  go  away  from  Connock.  That 
appeared  to  be  beyond  his  power  of  resolution.  Then 
he  reflected  upon  the  possibility  of  divorce,  but 
there  was  little  hope  in  that  direction,  because 
Abby's  parents,  and  possibly  Abby  herself,  would 
not  consent  to  her  marriage  with  a  divorced  man. 
There  were  but  two  things  to  do:  to  run  away  and 
to  abandon  forever  the  woman  he  loved  so  much 
and  who  loved  him,  or  to  remain  and  to  face  boldly 
the  consequences  of  anything  George  Fotherly 
should  be  able  to  do  for  his  discomfiture. 

George's  method  of  dealing  with  the  matter  was 
not  at  all  what  Clayton  expected.  Instead  of  warn- 
ing Abby  and  her  parents,  the  Quaker  called  upon 
Dr.  Ponder  and  in  the  privacy  of  his  study  read  to 
him  the  letter  that  had  come  from  Maryland,  omit- 
ting the  references  to  Abby's  indulgence  in  worldly 
practices.  He  explained  to  the  minister  why  he  had 
not  made  the  revelation  to  the  Woolfords,  choosing 
rather  to  present  it  to  Clayton's  relative  and  to 


286  TJie  Quakeress. 

invite  him  to  interpose  for  Abby's  protection  from  her 
lover. 

Dr.  Ponder  was  inclined  at  first  to  question  the 
truthfulness  of  the  report  of  Clayton's  marriage,  but 
when  George  told  him  of  his  own  talk  with  the 
young  man,  the  doctor  was  shocked  and  indignant 
and  at  once  declared  that  he  would  compel  Clayton 
to  separate  himself  from  Abby.  He  proposed  to  accom- 
plish that  result  by  threatening  to  lay  the  whole  matter 
before  Isaac  Woolford  unless  Clayton  should  comply 
with  his  wishes. 

The  doctor  agreed  with  George  that  nothing 
should  be  said  to  anybody  on  the  subject,  that  Abby 
might  be  more  fully  shielded  from  scandal.  Not 
even  Mrs.  Ponder  was  to  be  informed  of  the  report 
about  Clayton  until,  at  any  rate,  strong  measures 
should  become  necessary. 

Dr.  Ponder  sent  at  once  for  Clayton  and  calling 
him  into  the  study  locked  the  door  upon  him. 
Usually  the  youth  was  not  much  in  dread  of  his 
uncle,  of  whom  he  was  apt  to  speak  lightly;  but 
now  he  sat  in  the  chair  facing  the  minister  with  a 
grave  countenance  and  a  mind  filled  with  fear  of 
trouble  to  come. 

Without  naming  George,  Dr.  Ponder  said  to  Clay- 
ton that  reports  had  come  to  him  of  the  young  man's 
secret  marriage,  and  with  much  solemnity  of  man- 
ner the  minister  put  the  direct  question  to  him : 

"I  ask  you  now  if  these  reports  are  true?" 

Clayton  was  disposed  to  be  evasive. 

"What  is  the  source  of  the  rumors?"  he  asked. 

"We    will    have    no    dodging!"    said    the    doctor 


At  Bay.  287 


sternly.  "It  is  of  no  consequence  at  this  juncture 
where  they  came  from.  What  I  want  to  know  is  are 
they  true?" 

"Fotherly  has  been  maligning  me  to  you/'  said 
Clayton,  sullenly. 

Dr.  Ponder  was  resolved  to  keep  close  to  the 
question. 

"Are  the  reports  true?"  he  insisted. 

"Suppose  I  do  not  choose  to  answer?" 

"Then  I  shall  have  no  doubt  of  your  guilt." 

"Guilt!"  exclaimed  Clayton.  "Is  it  sinful  for  a 
man  to  be  married?" 

"Are  you  married?"  demanded  the  minister  again. 

"And  if  I  am,  what  of  it?" 

"Let  us  have  the  fact  established  first,  and  then 
we  can  take  up  consideration  of  consequences.  I  am 
sure  you  are  married  because,  if  you  were  single, 
your  refusal  to  give  a  direct  answer  to  my  question 
would  be  stupid  and  ridiculous." 

"Very  well,"  said  Clayton,  "let  it  go  at  that." 

"Now,"  said  Dr.  Ponder,  "so  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned it  is  no  business  of  mine  if  you  are  married  or 
unmarried,  or  if  you  were  married  secretly  or  openly, 
or  whether  you  married  above  you  or  below  you, 
excepting  in  the  measure  that  my  relationship  with 
you,  through  your  aunt,  may  give  to  me,  as  it  has 
done,  an  interest  in  your  affairs  and  your  welfare. 
I  have  wished  you  well  for  your  mother's  sake,  and 
as  you  have  been  brought  up  within  the  fold  of  the 
Church,  with  all  the  privileges  and  under  all  the  influ- 
ences that  she  has  for  the  benefit  of  her  children,  I 
have  hoped  that  you  had  before  you  a  career  of  honor 
and  happiness." 


288  The  Quakeress. 

"Come  to  the  point,  uncle,  please !"  said  Clayton, 
not  in  the  humor  to  listen  to  a  long  discourse. 

"I  come  to  it  at  once,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Ponder, 
angrily,  "by  saying  that  for  a  man  with  a  wife,  whether 
he  hides  her  or  displays  her,  to  pay  attentions  to  a 
pure  and  lovely  and  unsuspicious  girl,  and  to  try  to 
win  her  love  and  to  wreck  her  life  with  his  false  pre- 
tenses, is  to  stamp  himself  as  a  scoundrel  who 
deserves  the  scorn  and  contempt  and  the  indignant 
repudiation  of  every  man  who  has  a  spark  of  honor  in 
his  soul!  There,  sir!  that  is  the  way  in  which  I  come 
to  the  point!" 

Clayton  was  white  with  rage,  but  he  remained 
silent. 

"And  now,  sir,"  continued  the  doctor,  rising  from 
his  chair  and  with  his  forefinger  pointing  to  Clayton 
and  menacing  him,  "if  I  hear  again  of  your  associa- 
tion with  the  young  woman  in  question,  I  shall 
expose  you  at  once  to  her  and  to  her  father  and  mother 
and  to  the  community.  Meantime,  do  not  let  me  see 
your  face  again  until  you  have  made  up  your  mind 
to  act  like  an  honest  man  instead  of  a  contemptible 
sneaking  rascal." 

Then  Dr.  Ponder  unlocked  the  door,  opened  it, 
went  out,  slammed  it  and  retired  to  his  chamber 
upstairs,  leaving  Clayton  to  find  his  way  to  the  street 
a  beaten,  half  insane  man. 

To  Abby  he  managed  to  convey  intelligence  that 
it  would  be  no  longer  safe  for  them  to  meet,  but  he 
did  not  tell  her  why,  though  when  she  remembered 
the  meeting  with  George  upon  the  hillside  road  she 
guessed  that  George  had  something  to  do  with  the 
interruption  of  the  meetings. 


At  Bay.  289 

Thus  the  winter  passed  and  Abby  for  many  weeks 
did  not  once  see  Clayton,  but  was  forced  to  content 
herself  with  the  letters  he  wrote  to  her  frequently — 
letters  she  answered  often  with  lavish  use  of  terms 
of  endearment. 

Late  in  March  the  weather  in  Connock  and  in  the 
upper  valley  became  warm,  and  for  four  days  there 
were  heavy  and  continuous  rains.  With  the  snow 
lying  deep  on  all  the  hills,  the  people  who  had  lived 
long  in  the  valley  were  apprehensive  of  disaster;  and 
sure  enough,  before  the  fourth  day  of  rain  had 
begun,  each  brook  upon  the  sides  of  the  hills  was  a 
roaring  torrent,  the  water  in  the  river  had  risen  to 
the  brim  and  then  overflowed  upon  all  the  low  places, 
and  from  the  base  of  the  Connock  hill  to  the  foot  of 
the  hills  across  the  stream  there  was  a  wild,  yellow, 
rushing  tide,  full  of  black  drifting  things,  sweeping 
with  frightful  force  down  through  the  narrow  gorge 
at  Spring  Mill. 

The  water  was  over  the  meadows  and  over  the 
railroad  that  ran  between  the  meadows  and  the 
town.  All  the  iron  mills  and  their  office  buildings 
were  flooded  deeper  than  the  height  of  a  man  by  the 
swift-eddying  tawny  flood,  and  while  the  rain  poured 
steadily  downward  on  the  fourth  day,  the  waters 
swelled  higher  and  higher,  threatening  destruction 
to  everything  in  their  pathway. 

In  spite  of  the  rain,  half  the  people  in  Connock 
gathered  at  points  above  the  level  of  the  flood  to 
watch  the  spectacle.  But  the  mill-owners,  fearing 
further  rising  of  the  waters,  began  to  strive  to  remove 
the  books  and  papers  from  their  offices.  Already 

19 


The  Quakeress. 


everything  of  value  had  been  taken  to  the  upper 
floors  of  the  buildings  and  now  at  the  second-story 
windows  boats  were  moored  while  the  men  within 
carried  and  put  into  them  such  things  as  it  was  desired 
to  save. 

It  was  a  perilous  business,  for  the  current  had  tre- 
mendous power  and  the  water  was  full  of  logs  of 
wood  and  other  drifting  things  which  added  to  the 
danger  that  menaced  the  boats  from  the  fury  of  the 
waters. 

George  Fotherly  stood  with  the  crowd  that 
watched  with  eager  interest  the  boat  that  swung  to 
the  rope  that  was  fastened  to  the  window  of  the 
mill-office  opposite  him  across  the  wallow  that  cov- 
ered the  railroad.  Into  that  boat  presently  he  saw 
Clayton  Harley  climb  and  take  the  oars.  He  was 
compelled  to  confess  that  the  man  was  not  cowardly, 
at  any  rate.  The  bravest  might  reasonably  have 
shrunk  from  encountering  the  perils  of  directing  a 
boat  through  that  wild  welter  of  waters. 

When  Clayton  was  ready  the  rope  was  loosened 
and  he  tried  to  turn  the  bow  of  the  boat  toward  the 
shore.  The  little  craft  was  whirled  about  among  the 
eddies,  but  it  made  some  headway  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  likely  to  reach  the  land.  Within  twenty  feet 
of  the  place  where  George  stood  a  great  log  came 
booming  down  the  stream  and,  striking  Clayton's 
boat  fairly  in  the  middle,  overturned  it  and  hurled 
him  and  his  books  and  papers  into  the  water. 

A  murderous  wish  flashed  through  George  Foth- 
erly's  mind.  Here  was  one  way,  indeed,  to  settle  the 
trouble  with  the  Southerner  and  to  settle  it  forever! 


At  Bay. 


291 


But  before  he  could  think  of  the  wickedness  of  such 
a  thought,  he  flung  off  his  coat  and  plunging  into 
the  flood,  he  had  his  hand  on  Clayton's  collar  and 
was  pushing  for  the  shore  with  the  might  of  a  strong 
swimmer.  A  dozen  men  were  there  to  drag  them 
both  from  the  water,  and  when  George  had  come 
upon  his  feet  and  had  perceived  that  Clayton's  life 
was  safe,  he  fairly  ran  up  the  little  hill  behind  the 
crowd  and  made  his  way  to  Isaac  Woolford's  to  have 
his  clothing  dried. 

He  could  not  cross  the  river  to  his  own  home 
until  the  flood  was  gone. 

He  did  not  say,  nor  did  Abby  and  her  parents, 
until  long  after,  know,  that  he  had  rescued  Clayton. 
What  Abby  knew  before  the  day  was  over  was  that 
Clayton  had  narrowly  escaped  drowning,  and  her 
heart  was  glad  that  he  was  still  alive. 

Separation  from  him,  and  constant  perusal  of  his 
passionate  letters,  was  strengthening  her  love  for 
him,  and  as  she  thought  of  him  and  brooded  over  her 
troubles,  all  her  good  resolutions  disappeared  and 
she  found  herself  willing  to  consider  desperate  meas- 
ures as  not  beyond  her  will  if  only  she  might  see  him 
and  commune  with  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
Into  the  Gulf. 

THAT  she  might  receive  Clayton's  letters  without 
her  mother's  knowledge,  Abby  went  to  the  post- 
office  every  morning  and  evening  for  the  mail  for 
the  house,  secreting  the  letters  until  she  could  find 
opportunity  to  read  them  alone. 

One  morning  in  September  when  she  saw  the 
familiar  handwriting  on  one  of  the  envelopes  given  to 
her  by  the  postmaster,  she  thrust  the  letter  into  her 
pocket  and  walked  homeward  quickly.  Having 
given  the  rest  of  the  mail  to  her  mother,  and  having 
spoken  to  her  a  word  or  two  of  some  commonplace 
matter,  Abby  ran  to  her  room  and  locked  the  door. 
Drawing  a  chair  near  to  the  window  she  opened  the 
letter  and  read  this: 

"My  precious  Abby:  Why  should  we  longer 
endure  the  torture  of  separation?  I  am  almost  certain 
that  horrid  woman  is  dead  and  that  I  am  free.  Come 
to  me  then,  dearest,  and  let  us  go  away  somewhere 
far  into  the  West  and  as  man  and  wife  begin  the  life 
to  which  every  longing  of  our  souls  summons  us. 
To-morrow,  at  seven  in  the  evening,  I  will  have  a 
carriage  waiting  for  you  on  the  Gulf  Road  between 
the  old  mill  and  the  hanging-rock.  Find  your  way 
thither  unobserved  and  we  will  drive  swiftly  to 
Radnor  station  and  catch  the  through-train  for 

(292) 


p 


Into  the  Gulf.  293 

Pittsburgh.     Make  this  sacrifice  for  me,  my  darling, 
and  I  will  give  all  my  life  for  you." 

Clayton." 

Abby's  cheeks  were  hot  before  she  had  half-read 
the  letter,  and  when  she  had  read  it  to  the  end  she 
returned  and  read  it  again  and  again. 

She  had  never  dared  to  permit  her  thought  to 
dwell  upon  the  dread  adventure  to  which  her  lover 
now  invited  her,  but  she  had  long  known  that  it  was 
among  the  things  the  future  might  present  to  her; 
and  even  when  her  mind  had  turned  away  from  it 
by  violent  effort  and  with  a  sort  of  horror,  she  had 
perceived  lurking  deep  in  her  consciousness  the  assur- 
ance that  the  temptation  would  come  to  her  to  engage 
in  this  terrible  enterprise. 

It  had  come  now,  and  as  she  held  in  her  hand  the 
letter  she  had  learned  by  heart  and  looked  through 
the  window  at  the  trees  and  the  grass,  she  said  to  her- 
self that  she  could  not  do  what  Clayton  asked  of  her; 
and  yet  in  the  secret  chambers  of  her  soul  she  knew 
that  she  would  do  it. 

She  was  sure  intellectually  that  Clayton's  wife  was 
not  dead,  but  her  passion  impelled  her  to  override 
her  reason  and  to  accept  Clayton's  conjecture  as 
fact.  She  could  not  estimate  all  the  shame  to  her, 
all  the  misery  to  father  and  mother,  all  the  loss  of 
self-respect  and  all  the  surrender  of  religious  hope 
involved  in  flight  with  her  lover;  but  she  could  per- 
ceive a  part  of  the  awfulness  of  the  consequences;  and 
yet  she  found  herself  setting  over  against  them  the 
joy  of  complete  union  with  Clayton  and  finding  in 


294  The  Quakeress. 

their  devotion  to  each  other  compensation  even  for 
so  mighty  a  sacrifice. 

Before  she  left  the  room  to  answer  her  mother's 
call  to  some  household  "duties  she  had  resolved  to 
reconsider  the  whole  matter  at  her  leisure.  She  need 
not  act,  she  thought,  until  the  evening  of  the  next 
day  and  by  that  time  she  would -have  regained  her 
self-control  and  could  make  the  right  decision.  She 
pretended  to  herself,  as  she  thrust  the  letter  into 
the  depth  of  a  bureau  drawer,  that  she  was  still  free 
to  do  as  she  pleased;  but  there  was  no  self-deception. 
She  was  held  fast  by  a  power  which  urged  her 
towards  Clayton  with  irresistible  force.  As  she  closed 
the  drawer  her  thought  ran  swiftly  over  the  things, 
few  in  number,  that  she  should  have  to  take  with  her 
in  her  flight,  and  she  went  down  stairs  to  look  at  her 
mother  and  to  think  of  the  anguish  she  would  soon 
bring  to  that  unsuspecting  woman  who  loved  her  so 
dearly. 

The  infernal  power  is  always  ready  writh  opportu- 
nity when  one  is  bent  upon  doing  evil.  Abby  would 
keep  tryst  with  Clayton  on  Thursday  evening,  and 
on  that  evening  her  father  and  mother  went  to  the 
city  at  five  o'clock  to  take  supper  with  some  friends. 
They  would  not  return  until  nine  or  ten  o'clock. 
Thus  Abby  might  leave  home  without  having  any 
one  to  question  her.  She  could  hardly  restrain  her 
tears  as  she  saw  her  parents  go  through  the  front- 
gate  on  their  way  to  the  station.  She  should  never 
see  them  again,  she  thought,  and  this  seemed  so 
dreadful  to  consider  when  she  was  face  to  face  with 
the  fact,  that  she  tried  to  resolve  not  to  go  to  meet 


Into  the  Gulf. 


Clayton.  "I  can  spend  the  evening  in  praying,"  she 
said;  "or  I  can  go  in  and  stay  and  find  comfort  and 
diversion  with  Mrs.  Ponder;  or  I  can  walk  in  the 
opposite  direction,  toward  the  meeting-house,  and 
so  put  distance  between  me  and  temptation." 

Any  of  these  things  indeed  she  could  have  done, 
but  even  while  she  persuaded  herself  she  was  consid- 
ering them,  she  was  busy  closing  the  house,  putting 
into  a  little  hand-bag  some  toilet  articles  and  laying 
out  the  dress  she  would  wear  as  she  went  to  meet 
her  lover.  She  took  from  the  drawer  his  letter  and 
put  it  into  the  pocket  of  her  dress. 

She  went  to  the  supper  table  at  six,  eating  almost 
nothing,  but  trying  to  determine  if  she  should  leave 
a  note  for  her  mother.  She  foresaw  that  the  first 
uncertainty  of  her  parents  respecting  her  absence 
from  home  would  be  terrible  for  them,  but  she  could 
not  find  courage  to  put  upon  paper  for  them  a  state- 
ment of  the  truth. 

"I  will  write  to  them,"  she  said,  "as  soon  as  we 
shall  be  married,  and  ask  their  forgiveness." 

Soon  after  six  o'clock  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
wrapped  a  light  shawl  about  her,  and  taking  in  her 
hand  the  bag,  she  left  the  house.  Softly  she  closed 
the  door  behind  her,  as  if  the  smallest  noise  might 
reveal  her  purpose.  Quietly  she  swung  open  the  front 
gate,  which  she  left  unlatched  as  she  descended  the  steps 
to  the  sidewalk. 

She  started  down  the  street  with  her  mind  in  a 
strange  condition  of  exaltation  in  which  dread  was 
mingled.  She  seemed  to  herself  not  herself;  or  as 
if  she  were  acting  a  part  in  a  dream;  but  there  was 


296  The  Quakeress. 

no  repentance,  no  thought  of  retreat,  no  further  con- 
sideration of  consequences.  She  walked  to  her  doom 
as  if  choice  were  ended  and  sin  had  obtained  com- 
plete dominion  over  her. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  pavement  as  with 
hurried  nervous  steps  she  moved  down  the  street. 
She  wished  to  meet  no  one  she  knew,  for  she  felt  as 
if  an  acquaintance,  looking  into  her  eyes,  might  read 
her  soul.  Quickly  she  passed  the  bridges  over  the 
railroad,  the  canal  and  the  river,  and  then  the  hills 
were  before  her,  and  the  road  that  went  sharply  to 
the  left  to  sweep  upward  into  the  gorge  that  led  to 
George  Fotherly's  farm.  For  the  first  time  since  she 
read  Clayton's  letter  she  thought  of  George,  and  now 
a  wave  of  anguish  passed  over  her  spirit  as  she  real- 
ized, not  only  the  suffering  which  her  misconduct 
would  inflict  upon  that  brave  and  pure  soul,  but  the 
shame  in  which  in  his  thought  she  would  be  involved 
because  of  her  flight.  Then  suddenly  she  remem- 
bered the  promise  she  had  made  to  George  that  she 
would  never  marry  any  one  but  him.  Falsehood, 
base,  wicked  falsehood,  was  now  added  to  her  other 
wickedness.  When  she  made  that  promise  she  was 
sure  Clayton  would  never  in  her  lifetime  be  free.  She 
could  not  then  have  believed  that  she  would  fall  so 
far  as  to  fly  with  him  while  there  was  good  reason 
to  believe  his  wife  was  still  living. 

She  now  saw  with  perfect  clearness,  as  if  a  flash  of 
lightning  had  revealed  it  to  her,  the  immeasurable 
superiority  of  her  old  companion  to  this  man  who  beck- 
oned her  to  infamy,  and  her  knees  almost  gave  way 
beneath  her.  Could  she  not  even  yet  retreat?  How 


Into  the  Gulf.  297 

could  she  bear  the  certainty  of  George's  pity  or  of 
his  scorn?  "But  no!"  she  said,  "it  is  too  late  to  go 
back."  She  had  chosen  dishonor,  at  any  rate,  and 
what  matters  the  degree  if  one  has  become  a  shame- 
less outcast? 

So  she  did  not  pause.  Her  love  was  not  for 
George,  but  for  that  other  man,  however  unworthy 
he  might  be,  who  was  even  now  waiting  for  her  and 
longing  for  her  at  the  meeting-place.  Her  soul 
leaped  out  to  him.  She  could  not  give  him  up  even 
to  have  peace  and  to  save  herself  and  her  dear  ones 
from  dishonor. 

She  turned  to  the  right  as  she  left  the  end  of  the 
river  bridge  and  with  more  rapid  step  began  the  gen- 
tle ascent  of  the  Radnor  road.  Here  the  highway, 
thick  with  white  dust,  runs  upward  for  a  while 
between  rows  of  houses,  with  gardens  before  and 
behind  them,  while  high  on  either  hand  the  green  hills 
bound  the  narrow  valley.  The  sun  was  down,  but 
there  was  light  enough  to  see  the  crests  of  the  hills, 
crowned  with  foliage,  and  to  observe  how  they 
flanked  the  road  to  the  eastward  and  the  westward 
so  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

Up  and  on  the  girl  climbed  the  road  until  the 
houses  became  few  in  number;  forward  and  upward, 
always  rising  to  higher  lifts  above  the  river  until, 
when  two  miles  had  been  traversed,  she  saw  straight 
ahead  of  her  the  Gulf  Church  above  the  level  of  the 
road.  She  came  to  it  just  where  the  highway  reaches 
the  crest  of  the  hill.  Below  and  in  front  of  her 
stretched  far  away  the  Gulf  Valley,  through  which 
pours  a  turbulent  rivulet.  It  comes  downward 


The  Quakeress. 


through  the  Gulf  Valley  until  it  encounters  the  ridge 
upon  which  the  church  stands  —  a  ridge  thrown  by 
Nature  right  across  the  end  of  the  valley  as  a  barrier 
which  the  stream  cannot  cross  until  all  the  gulf 
should  be  brimming  with  the  imprisoned  waters  and 
transformed  into  a  lake.  But  Nature  has  another 
way  of  escape  for  the  stream,  for  in  the  high  hills  to 
the  right  it  has  hewed  out  a  gap  through  which  the 
water  pours,  finding  beyond  the  hills  a  channel  to 
permit  it  to  reach  the  distant  river. 

Abby  turned  the  corner  sharply~at  the  church  and 
walked  upon  the  descending  way  leading  to  the  Gap, 
now  but  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  The  dusk  was 
gathering  as  she  began  the  descent  and  the  hundreds 
of  tombstones  clustered  upon  the  hillside  behind  the 
church  seemed  strangely  white  as  the  light  faded 
from  the  sky.  Abby  glanced  at  them  while  she  went 
by,  but  her  mind  was  now  alert  to  discover  the  pres- 
ence of  Clayton.  She  should  be  with  him  in  a  few 
moments  and  her  eagerness  to  see  him  was  sharpened 
as  the  time  for  meeting  came  near. 

It  was  gloomy  in  the  Gap  when  she  approached  it, 
but  she  could  discern  that  no  vehicle  stood  in  the 
road  even  beyond  the  hanging  rock. 

"I  am  early,"  she  said.  "It  is  not  yet  seven 
o'clock." 

She  moved  with  slower  footsteps  close  to  the  shadow 
of  the  great  hills  that  reared  themselves  above 
the  road,  and  when  she  had  come  as  far  as  the  old 
mill  she  stopped.  Nobody  was  there.  She  felt  com- 
pletely safe.  She  sat  upon  a  stone  just  off  the  road 
by  the  side  of  the  brook  and  listened  to  the  brawling 
waters  that  hurried  by  through  the  cleft  in  the  hills. 


Into  the  Gulf. 


299 


She  remembered  for  a  moment  that  along  this 
road  Washington's  army  had  marched  on  its  way  to 
Valley  Forge,  and  had  encamped  for  a  night  at  this 
lovely  spot.  Here  also,  but  she  did  not  know  it, 
George  Fotherly  and  Dolly  Harley  had  galloped  on 
that  day  when  they  rode  together. 

Several  minutes  passed  after  Abby  had  sat  down 
and  her  ears  were  open  for  the  noise  of  carriage- 
wheels.  She  listened  and  she  looked,  but  there  was 
no  sound  excepting  the  ripple  of  the  waters,  and  the 
increasing  darkness  continually  narrowed  the  range 
of  her  vision. 

The  thought  that  Clayton  might  not  come  had 
never  entered  her  mind,  and  now  when  it  presented 
itself  to  her  she  put  it  away  quickly  and  almost 
angrily  as  something  not  to  be  contemplated.  It  dis- 
honored him,  she  said  to  herself,  to  admit  for  a 
moment  that  he  should  in  such  a  manner  deceive  her. 
So  she  sat  still  for  a  while  with  the  fear  of  his 
unfaithfulness  thrusting  itself  upon  her  and  growing 
stronger,  and  with  her  thoughts  turning  more  and 
more  to  the  real  nature  of  this  reckless  adventure 
upon  which  she  had  launched. 

Somehow,  there  in  the  darkness  and  the  loneliness 
it  did  not  seem  quite  so  alluring  as  it  had  done  while 
she  was  at  home.  The  thought  of  her  mother  and 
her  father  and  of  George  brought  even  a  sharper  pang 
to  her  spirit  as  she  reflected  upon  their  feelings  when 
the  truth  should  be  made  known.  She  began  to  have 
half  a  hope  that  Clayton  indeed  would  not  keep  tryst; 
and  while  she  thought  this  she  heard  a  carriage  coming. 
Then  the  notion  of  repentance  vanished  from  her  mind 


300  The  Quakeress. 

and  with  flushed  cheek  and  fast-beating  heart  she  rose 
to  greet  her  lover. 

It  was  not  he.  The  carriage  passed  swiftly  through 
the  gap  and  as  it  went  by  she  heard  a  man  and  a 
woman  talking  as  they  rode. 

Many  minirtes  had  been  spent  now  in  waiting.  "It 
must  be  much  past  seven,"  she  said,  and  she  had  an 
impulse  to  go  home.  But  again  she  took  a  seat  upon 
the  stone  and  listened. 

Suddenly  the  thought  came  to  her  that  she  might 
have  misread  Clayton's  letter.  This  did  not  seem 
possible,  but  she  would  examine  the  letter.  From 
the  dust-grimed  window  of  the  grist-mill  near  by  a 
faint  light  shone;  the  light  in  the  watchman's  room. 
Abby  took  the  crumpled  letter  from  her  pocket  and 
came  closer  to  the  window.  With  difficulty  she  read 
it  and  perceived  that  the  letter  was  dated  on  Tuesday 
and  asked  her  to  meet  him  "to-morrow,"  that  is,  on 
Wednesday. 

Her  mind  was  in  such  confusion  and  tumult  that 
a  strong  effort  of  her  will  was  required  to  permit 
her  fully  to  grasp  the  truth,  which  was  that,  care- 
lessly, she  had  permitted  herself  to  be  controlled  by 
her  first  impression  that  "to-morrow"  was  Thursday, 
the  day  after  the  letter  had  come  to  her. 

She  crushed  the  paper  in  her  hands  and  slowly 
walked  back  into  the  road.  Clayton  had  been  here 
last  night  and  had  waited  for  her.  She  sat  down 
again  to  consider  the  situation.  A  faint  hope  lin- 
gered with  her  that  he  would  guess  why  she  had  not 
met  him  and  would  return  upon  this  night.  She 
would  wait  still  for  a  little  while.  The  thought  that 


Into  the  Gulf.  301 

oppressed  her  until  it  almost  prostrated  her  was  of 
Clayton's  disappointment.  He  must  have  suffered 
much  because  of  the  loss  of  her  companionship  and 
more  because  he  surely  believed  her  faithless  to 
him. 

Then,  when  flight  with  him  had  become  impossi- 
ble she  found  herself  longing  for  it.  All  the  hideous- 
ness  of  that  proceeding  had  vanished  and  her  love 
discerned  in  it  allurements  and  ecstacies  that  had  not 
before  presented  themselves  to  her  fancy.  It  was 
clear  to  her  that  if  Clayton  should  come  now  she 
would  make  for  him  without  a  pang,  but  joyfully, 
the  amazing  sacrifice  he  had  demanded  of  her. 

But  still  there  was  not  wanting  to  her  soul  the  still 
small  voice  that  whispered  to  her  in  this  hour  of 
desperation  and  bitterness  that  a  loving  Power  had 
lifted  her  out  of  the  entanglement  which  had  been 
thrown  around  her  feet  and  had  put  them  once  again 
upon  the  way  that  might  lead  her  back  to  honor 
and  self-respect. 

The  darkness  fell  deep  upon  field  and  forest  and 
rushing  rivulet  while  she  sat  there,  and  still  Clayton 
did  not  come. 

"He  will  not  come,"  she  said,  rising  and  trying  to 
look  about  her.  "I  shall  never  see  him  again." 

Then  suddenly  the  blackness  of  the  glen  became 
terrible,  and  the  plashing  of  the  stream,  heard  alone 
amid  the  deep  silence  of  the  place,  seemed  like  a  con- 
fusion of  voices  mocking  her.  Dread  came  upon  her, 
and  turning  she  started  with  rapid  steps  upward 
along  the  road  that  led  to  the  church. 

It  was  a  sharp  ascent,   and  soon  she  was  almost 


The  Quakeress. 


breathless.  Now,  as  she  came  near  to  the  hillside 
burying-ground,  the  swarming  grave-stones  had  a 
new  and  ghastly  whiteness.  In  the  deep  darkness 
they  alone  could  be  seen.  She  would  hurry  by,  and 
despite  her  fatigue  she  quickened  her  pace. 

She  had  not  noticed  that  the  stars  were  hidden  and 
that  all  the  sky  was  covered  by  cloud,  but  before  she 
had  come  up  to  the  level  of  the  church  and  turned 
the  corner  into  the  Radnor  road,  facing  homeward, 
rain  began  to  fall.  She  had  an  impulse  to  find  refuge 
in  the  church-porch  until  the  shower  should  pass; 
but  she  remembered  that  the  time  was  growing  late 
and  that  she  must  at  any  hazard  reach  Connock  and 
her  house  before  her  father  and  mother  should 
return.  She  resolved  to  press  forward. 

Then  the  rain  fell  more  and  more  heavily  and  all  the 
thick  dust  of  the  highway  turned  to  grey  mud  which 
clung  to  her  shoes  and  her  skirts,  while  her  bonnet  and 
her  frock  were  soon  saturated  with  water. 

She  was  weary  and  faint  and  half-crying,  but  she 
stumbled  onward  with  a  kind  of  fierce  wild  energy, 
fearful  that  even  yet  her  misconduct  would  be  discov- 
ered and  wondering,  with  her  brain  in  a  whirl  of  excite- 
ment and  panic,  in  what  manner  she  could  account 
to  her  mother  for  her  condition  and  her  strange 
behavior.  More  than  once  she  thought  she  would  just 
fling  herself  down  by  the  roadside  and  perish  there; 
but  then  to  perish  is  not  so  easy,  and  she  knew  that 
to  linger  would  be  to  destroy  all  hope  of  saving  her 
good  name. 

So  she  went  forward  still  while  the  storm  became 
more  violent.  Presently  she  heard,  close  behind  her, 


Into  the  Gulf.  303 

the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  and  the  light  from  the 
lamps  upon  the  dashboard  flared  through  the  rain- 
drops and  upon  the  wet  earth  beside  her. 

The  driver  of  the  horse  saw  her  and  hailed  her. 
She  drew  herself  aside  and  put  her  head  down.  She 
would  rather  not  be  spoken  to  even  by  a  stranger. 
But  the  man  in  the  carriage  was  persistent  in  his 
kindness.  He  stopped  beside  her  and,  leaping  out, 
insisted  that  Abby  should  get  in  with  him. 

As  soon  as  he  touched  the  earth  she  knew  that  it 
was  Dr.  Ponder,  and  when  she  looked  about  at  him 
he  recognized  her. 

"Bless  my  soul,  Abby,  is  it  you !"  he  exclaimed. 
"Why,  my  dear,  get  right  in  and  let  me  drive  you 
home." 

Then  he  lifted  her  into  the  carriage  and  seated  him- 
self by  her  side.  '"Now,"  she  thought,  "exposure  and 
disgrace  are  sure."  What  should  she  say  to  Dr.  Pon- 
der? Nothing,  it  appeared.  Dr.  Ponder  was  more 
than  willing  to  do  all  the  talking. 

"Abby,  my  child,  how  did  you  contrive  to  get  away 
out  here  on  the  hills  on  such  a  night?  It  is  really 
terrible  for  you  to  be  so  far  from  home  in  the  rain 
and  the  darkness.  You  lost  your  way,  of  course.  I 
have  so  often  protested  against  the  practice  you 
young  women  have  of  taking  long  walks  by  your- 
selves on  these  lonely  roads,  particularly  in  the  late 
afternoon.  How  fortunate  for  you  that  I  happened  to 
overtake  you  and  to  see  you !  Are  you  wet  ?  Why, 
my  dear,  it  is  dreadful!  Here,  throw  this  lap-robe 
about  your  shoulders." 

Abby  murmured  thanks. 


3°4  The  Quakeress. 

"I  think  it  is  but  a  shower  after  all,"  continued  Dr. 
Ponder.  "It  will  be  over  quickly;  and,  at  any  rate, 
we  shall  soon  be  at  home.  Your  father  and  mother 
will  be  worried  about  you.  I  am  really  glad  to  have 
a  companion  for  the  rest  of  this  dreary  drive.  I 
have  been  over  to  Radnor  to  attend  service  at  St. 
David's  Church — a  church  consecrated  by  the  mem- 
ories of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Have  you  ever 
been  there,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,"  said  Abby,  faintly. 

"Isn't  it  a  lovely  place?  And  the  church  edifice 
is  so  quaint !  Ah  !  my  beloved  child,  how  I  wish  you 
and  your  dear  parents  could  see  the  light  with  respect 
to  church  matters!  You  have  never  had  an  impulse 
to  look  into  them,  have  you  ?" 

"No!"  whispered  Abby,  shivering. 

"And  that  is  the  only  reason  why  so  many  good 
people  who  really  in  their  hearts  want  to  do  right 
miss  the  opportunity.  To  the  candid  mind  the 
argument  is  conclusive  that  there  is  really  but  one 
true  Church,  with  an  apostolic  priesthood  of 
unbroken  descent  and  holding  as  a  sacred  trust  the  faith 
once  delivered  to  the  Saints.  That  is  our  Church, 
with  a  consecrated,  divinely-inspired  ministry,  speak- 
ing with  authority,  clothed  with  almost  supernatural 
powers,  and  alone  warranted  in  interpreting  the 
Divine  Will  to  the  people.  But  people  will  not  per- 
mit candor  to  control  their  minds;  that  is  the  trouble. 
Ears  have  they  and  hear  not;  eyes  have  they  and  see 
not.  They  are  in  spiritual  darkness  and  ignorance. 
But  your  young  mind,  dear  Abby — surely  it  is  not 
closed  to  the  truth?" 

"No,"  said  Abby  faintly. 


Into  the  Gulf. 


"Take,  for  example,  the  sacraments,"  continued  Dr. 
Ponder,  earnestly,  as  he  touched  his  horse  with  the 
whip.  "The  Friends  look  upon  them  wholly  from 
the  spiritual  side  and  so  in  fact  reject  them;  but  is  it 
not  the  truth,  Abby,  that  —  ?  Perhaps,  however,  you 
do  not  care  to  have  the  truth  explained  here  and  now? 
You  are  weary  and  uncomfortable.  Shall  I  go  on 
with  my  talk  upon  the  subject,  or  shall  we  wait 


"Go  on,  please!"  responded  Abby,  who  was  by  no 
means  displeased  that  the  doctor,  instead  of  feeling 
curious  about  her  presence  on  that  lonely  road,  in 
the  thick  darkness  and  the  storm,  should  have  his 
mind  diverted  wholly  to  one  of  his  favorite  subjects 
for  discussion.  "Go  on,  if  thee  will.  I  am  much  in 
need  of  instruction." 

"In  much  need,  in  truth,"  said  the  doctor,  who 
thereupon  with  a  kind  .of  joyousness  began  a  sermon 
that  lasted  until  he  had  crossed  the  river  and 
mounted  the  Connock  hill  and  halted  at  the  parson- 
age gate. 

"But  I  should  have  stopped  before  your  gate," 
said  the  doctor.  "I  was  so  much  engaged  in  this 
interesting  subject  that  really  I  forgot  about  you." 

"I  will  get  out  here,"  said  Abby;  and  seeing  Mrs. 
Ponder  standing  in  the  doorway,  with  a  lighted  hall 
behind  her,  she  added,  "and  stop  a  moment  with 
Friend  Ponder." 

"Do!"  answered  the  doctor,  "while  I  return  the 
horse  to  the  livery  stable.  I  found  her  lost  in  the 
storm,  my  dear,"  called  the  doctor  to  Mrs.  Ponder, 
"and  brought  her  safely  home," 


The  Quakeress. 


Abby  would  much  rather  have  gone  to  the  grey 
house  at  once,  but  she  could  not  avoid  speaking  with 
Mrs.  Ponder,  who  regarded  with  amazement  her 
bedraggled  condition.  Abby  felt  that  she  could  not 
withstand  questioning  from  the  minister's  wife.  Upon 
the  slightest  pressure  she  was  sure  she  would  fall  upon 
her  knees,  bury  her  face  in  that  good  woman's  dress 
and  make  full  confession  of  her  fault. 

But  Mrs.  Ponder,  though  surprised  and  curious, 
did  not  inquire  closely.  Being  very  shrewd,  and 
knowing  of  Clayton's  sudden  disappearance,  she  may. 
have  guessed  that  Abby  had  been  away  somewhere 
to  meet  him  or  to  say  farewell  to  him;  and  besides, 
she  had  in  her  possession  and  now  withdrew  from 
her  pocket,  a  letter  directed  in  Clayton's  handwriting 
to  Abby.  This  she  gave  to  Abby,  saying  : 

"It  reached  me  to-day,  my  dear,  with  a  note  asking 
me  to  give  it  to  you." 

The  color  came  sharply  into  Att^'s  face  as  she 
took  the  letter,  and  again  the  impulse  was  strong 
upon  her  to  tell  the  whole  pitiful  story  to  Mrs.  Pon- 
der. But  that  lady  said  to  her  : 

"And  now,  my  dear,  while  I  should  dearly  love  to 
have  you  stay  with  me,  I  think  it  would  be  wise  for 
you  to  go  into  your  own  home  and  quickly  put  on 
dry  clothing.  You  can  tell  me  all  about  it  another 
time;  how  you  happened  to  lose  your  way  and  how 
Dr.  Ponder  fortunately  found  you." 

Then  she  kissed  the  girl  good-night,  and  Abby, 
clasping  the  letter  tightly  in  her  hand,  hurried  to  her 
home  and  went  in  at  the  front  door.  Her  parents 
had  not  yet  returned,  and  she  had,  she  thought,  at 


Into  the  Gulf. 


307 


least    an    hour   in    which    to    make    ready    for   their 
coming. 

But  before  she  would  remove  one  of  her  wet  gar- 
ments, she  would  read  Clayton's  letter.  Closing  the 
door  of  her  bed-room  and  lighting  a  candle,  she  tore 
open  the  envelope  and  standing  by  her  bureau  she 
read : 

"You  are  right,  my  precious  Abby!  I  sinned 
against  you  in  asking  you  to  leave  your  home  and 
your  mother  with  a  man  who,  after  all,  may  not  be 
free.  Good-bye,  my  love!  I  will  harass  you  no 
longer  with  my  miserable  life !  In  three  days  I  shall 
be  in  the  Confederate  army.  I  hope  to  find  death 
there!" 

Abby's  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears  before  she 
could  read  the  letter  through.  She  brushed  them 
away  and  read  it  over  and  over  again. 

"Poor  Clayton !"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  put  the 
letter  down  upon  the  bureau  and  began  to  undress. 
"He  thinks  I  have  forsaken  him !  I  have  driven  him 
to  death.  I  know  he  will  die  in  battle,  and  all  because 
of  my  carelessness !" 

She  was  weeping  all  the  while  she  put  herself  in 
dry  and  warm  garments  and  then  she  flung  herself 
upon  the  bed  to  reflect,  to  cry,  and  to  pray — to  pray 
for  herself  and  for  the  lover  who  was  now  lost  to  her 
forever.  In  her  forlornness  and  weariness  and  deso- 
lation she  fell  asleep;  and  after  a  while  her  mother 
came  softly  in.  The  candle  was  almost  burned  out. 


The  Quakeress. 


By  it  lay  the  open  letter,  which  Rachel  had  read  before 
she  had  a  thought  that  it  was  important. 

Then  putting  out  the  light,  the  mother,  with  a  new 
and  heavier  sorrow  upon  her  heart,  withdrew  from 
the  room,  quietly  closing  the  door  so  that  Abby 
should  not  know  she  had  been  there. 

In  the  morning  Abby  awoke  without  having 
changed  her  position  upon  the  bed  during  all  the 
night.  As  soon  as  she  had  full  consciousness  she 
leaped  to  the  floor  and  hurried  to  the  bureau.  The 
letter  seemed  to  have  been  untouched.  Had  her 
mother  seen  it?  Abby  guessed  she  had,  but  in  any 
case  she  could  not  doubt  that  her  mother  would  see 
and  be  worried  about  the  pallid  and  haggard  face 
the  girl  must  bring  to  the  breakfast  table. 

When  Rachel  greeted  her  as  she  came  down  stairs 
Abby  was  sure  that  her  mother  had  seen  the  letter, 
and  sure  also  that  she  would  not  speak  of  it,  no  mat- 
ter what  was  the  measure  of  her  sorrow. 

Abby  went  about  her  household  duties  in  the  usual 
way,  but  when  the  morning  was  nearly  spent  and 
Rachel,  her  tasks  completed,  sat  in  the  rocking  chair 
in  the  sitting  room  with  sadness  upon  her  face,  Abby 
came  to  her  and  kneeling  by  her,  put  her  head  upon 
her  mother's  knee  as  she  had  been  used  to  do  in  her 
childhood,  and  began  to  sob.  Still  Rachel  said  noth- 
ing, but  she  stroked  the  girl's  hair  with  a  gentle  hand 
and  leaned  over  to  kiss  her  forehead. 

"Thee  saw  it,  mother,  I  know,"  said  Abby  with 
her  face  still  hidden. 

"The  letter  thee  means?  Yes,  dear,  I  saw  it  and 
I  read  it  without  thinking  it  was  thine  own." 

"And  thee  forgives  me,  mother?" 


Into  tlie  Gulf. 


309 


"I  do  not  know  what  there  is  to  forgive,"  she 
answered.  "Has  thee  loved  this  man?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"And  he  wished  thee  to  marry  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"He  is  not  worthy  of  thee,  my  dear.  There  is  not 
clear  honesty  in  his  face,  I  think.  Father  and  I  long 
have  hoped  thee  would  love  George." 

"I  know  it,  mother,  but  it  seems  as  if  I  cannot." 

"We  cannot  always  control  our  feelings,  I  know, 
dear  Abby,  and  yet  George  is  so  good  a  man  and  he 
is  a  Friend,  and  I  am  sure  he  loves  thee  dearly." 

"I  am  not  fit  to  be  his  wife." 

"Did  this  other  man  invite  thee  to  dishonor  thy- 
self and  thy  parents  by  running  away  with  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"That  is  the  proof  that  he  is  unworthy.  And  thee 
would  not  go  although  thee  had  strong  affection  for 
him.  I  am  sure  thee  would  not.  It  would  have  been 
the  very  bitterness  of  death  for  thy  father  and  for  me. 
God  gave  thee  grace  to  resist  that  temptation." 

Poor  Abby  could  not  tell  the  whole  truth  to  her 
mother.  To  do  so,  she  felt,  would  be  to  wound  her 
almost  as  much  as  if  she  had  indeed  flown  with  Clay- 
ton. 

"What  did  the  man  mean,  my  child,  by  saying  he 
may  not  be  free?" 

Abby,  her  head  lifted,  but  with  her  face  turned 
away  from  Rachel's,  felt  her  cheeks  crimson  with 
shame.  She  thought  she  could  not  answer  that  awful 
question;  and  Rachel  did  not  repeat  it.  But  in  the 
silence  that  followed  it  seemed  to  Abby  that  not  to 


310  The  Quakeress. 

answer  it  at  all  might  be  more  dreadful  than  to  tell 
the  truth.  She  turned  quickly  and  hiding  her  face 
again  in  her  mother's  lap,  she  said : 

"He  is  already  married." 

It  was  a  frightful  avowal  to  make.  She  shuddered 
as  she  uttered  the  words,  and  Rachel  was  as  if  a  sword 
had  pierced  her  soul.  But  the  mother  was  used  to 
mastering  her  spirit  and  she  would  not  now  probe 
deep  into  Abby's  confidence  lest  the  girl  should  be 
put  to  fresh  confusion.  Much  she  would  have  liked 
to  know  when  Abby  first  learned  that  Clayton  was 
not  free,  but  she  dreaded  to  ask  that  question.  So 
after  silence  for  a  moment  she  said : 

"And  now,  my  poor  child,  the  man  has  gone,  and 
I  hope  forever.  It  was  base  for  him  to  disturb  thy 
young  and  pure  life  with  his  wicked  plotting;  but 
thee  will  see  him  no  more." 

Abby  actually  felt  her  soul  protesting  against  her 
mother's  words  for  Clayton;  but  she  only  said: 

"I  suppose  not,  mother,"  and  she  began  again  to 
weep. 

"It  may  be,"  said  Rachel,  "that  he  will  survive  the 
war  and  after  a  while  come  back  to  thee.  Thee  will 
promise  me  not  to  receive  him?" 

"I  promise  I  will  not,  mother." 

"Even  if  he  should  be  then  free  ?  For,  my  dearest, 
if  he  could  lawfully  marry  thee,  such  a  man  surely 
would  wreck  thy  life." 

"Mother,"  said  Abby,  "I  will  not  marry  him  even 
if  I  might  do  so.  My  life  is  already  wrecked.  I  shall 
have  peace  no  more." 

"Not  so,  my  dear,"  said   Rachel,  taking  Abby's 


Into  the  Gulf. 


311 


hand  and  lifting  her  up  to  sit  upon  the  chair  beside 
her  mother.  "Thee  will  try  to  conquer  thy  feeling 
for  the  man,  and  thee  will  conquer  it;  and  that  thee 
may  do  so  victoriously  thee  needs  to  ask  for  Divine 
help  and  to  pray  that  the  Inner  Light  may  shine 
more  brightly  in  thy  soul.  It  is  they  that  come  .out 
of  great  tribulation  that  are  truly  God's  people,  and 
thy  great  tribulation  has  come  to  thee  early  in  thy 
life  in  this  passion  which  brought  thee  into  peril  from 
which  God  has  given  thee  wonderful  deliverance." 

Then  Abby  went  to  her  room  more  sure  than  ever 
that  her  love  for  Clayton  would  never  know  abate- 
ment and  reproaching  herself  for  concealment  from 
her  mother  of  her  wild  adventure  of  yesterday. 

The  next  day  she  was  greeted  by  two  painful  reve- 
lations. Her  father  came  home  with  a  sad  face  to 
tell  his  wife  and  daughter  that  his  furnace  had  chilled. 

In  the  evening  Mrs.  Ponder  sent  for  Abby  to  come 
over  to  the  parsonage.  The  girl  found  her  weeping 
and  for  some  moments  the  minister's  wife  could 
hardly  utter  the  strange  message  she  had  for  her. 
When  at  last  she  could  command  her  feelings,  she 
informed  Abby  that  a  letter  had  just  come  to  her 
from  her  heart-broken  sister  at  Sassafras  telling  that 
Dolly  had  fled  with  Dr.  Ramsey  and  covered  all  her 
family  with  shame. 

Abby  went  away  with  white  face  to  spend  the  night 
in  sleeplessness. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Isaac  Woolford  Goes  into  a  Far 
Country. 

WHEN  a  blast-furnace  "chills"  all  the  molten  and 
half-molten  mass  of  iron-ore,  limestone  and  coal  in 
process  of  transmutation  by  chemical  magic  solidifies 
and  stands  there,  filling  every  crevice  and  cranny  of 
the  stack,  an  inert,  immovable  lump  of  material  which 
can  be  rent  asunder  and  dislodged  only  by  the  force 
of  violent  explosives.  The  operation  is  costly  of 
removing  in  its  hardened  form  the  stuffs  which  in  their 
semi-fluid  state  are  so  easily  changed  by  combustion 
and  gravitation.  Many  thousands  of  dollars  must  be 
expended  before  the  stack  will  be  ready  again  for 
reducing  the  oxides  of  iron  to  the  metallic  state. 

The  chilling  of  Isaac  Woolford's  furnace,  therefore, 
meant  death  to  all  his  hopes  that  he  would  reach  the 
point  where  he  could  do  successful  business.  With 
the  blasts  in  full  operation  and  all  the  processes  of 
smelting  moving  along  without  let  or  hindrance, 
Isaac  barely  kept  himself  from  bankruptcy.  Now,  at 
least  ten  thousand  dollars  would  be  required  before 
he  could  make  another  ton  of  iron,  and  it  was  clear  to 
him  that  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  career  as  an 
iron-maker;  clear  indeed  that  unless  miraculous  good 
fortune  should  come  to  him  from  some  unsuspected 
quarter,  he  ^pould  never  be  able  to  pay  his  debts. 


Into  a  Far  Country. 


313 


This,  then,  was  the  achievement  of  a  life  spent  in 
ceaseless  industry,  in  patient  striving,  in  persistent 
hopefulness:  he  entered  upon  old  age  a  poorer  man 
than  when  he  began;  he  moved  toward  the  time  of 
helplessness  with  no  reserve  fund  for  maintenance, 
and  his  continuous  purpose  to  engage  in  fair  dealing 
had  issued  in  the  imposition  of  a  burden  of  debt  he 
could  never  pay.  There  was  but  one  gleam  of  light 
in  the  darkness:  in  permitting  his  mind  to  go  over 
his  career  he  could  perceive  that  he  had  blundered 
often,  but  he  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever 
wilfully  \vronged  any  man  of  the  value  of  a  dollar. 
Some  comfort  for  his  own  soul  there  was  in  that 
reflection,  but  not  enough  to  overcome  the  heart-ache 
which  the  humiliation  of  failure  and  the  dread  of  pen- 
niless old  age  for  himself  and  suffering  for  his  wife 
and  daughter  brought  to  him. 

He  went  to  his  office  still,  day  after  day,  for  there 
were  some  things  of  small  moment  to  be  done,  and 
habit  was  strong  upon  him,  but  he  framed  no  plans 
for  continuance.  He  would  not  ask  George  to  ven- 
ture any  more  money  in  the  business.  He  felt  indeed 
that  he  could  not  consent  if  George  should  volunteer 
to  do  so.  The  business  was  ended.  The  door  was 
shut.  Hope  had  departed. 

What  he  should  do  next  he  did  not  know  nor 
•could  he  bring  himself  to  consider.  The  springs  of 
action  had  lost  all  their  force.  He  was  like  a  man 
benumbed.  It  was  of  no  use  to  try  again,  for  how 
many  times  had  he  tried  while  still  his  soul  was  buoy- 
ant with  hope  and  all  the  power  of  his  younger  man- 
hood was  with  him?  and  always  he  had  -failed.  In 


3  u  The  Quakeress. 


his  bitterness  he  felt  almost  like  saying  that  a  curse 
had  been  set  upon  him;  but  he  would  not  do  that. 
His  soul  was  reverent  even  if  it  was  sometimes 
inclined  to  be  rebellious.  No  doubt  some  wise  pur- 
pose was  behind  the  causes  that  impelled  him  to 
defeat;  he  was  willing  to  confess  that  spiritual  disci- 
pline might  be  more  likely  to  come  from  failure  than 
from  success;  but  if  this  were  fully  admitted,  in  what 
manner  should  the  fact  bring  gratification  to  his  cred- 
itors, and  how  should  it  supply  him  and  his  beloved 
ones  with  shelter  and  bread  as  the  years  go  on  and  the 
almond-tree  begins  to  flourish  ? 

Isaac  crept  up  the  hill  towards  his  home,  evening 
after  evening,  pondering  these  things  in  his  heart 
and  finding  the  steep  ascent  of  the  Connock  street 
harder  and  harder  as  the  days  went  by  and  the  bur- 
dened soul  reacted  on  the  worn  body.  Then  one  day 
he  felt  as  if  he  should  like  to  stay  at  home  and  rest 
himself  for  a  few  hours.  He  was  very  tired.  Mind 
and  body  alike  were  tired,  and  the  little  business  that 
remained  to  him  could  wait  for  another  day.  He 
dawdled  about  the  house  and  the  garden,  and  though 
the  weight  upon  his  heart  was  not  lifted  and  the  lov- 
ing wife  and  sweet  affectionate  daughter  had  sorrow 
for  him  written  upon  their  faces,  he  did  find  some 
sort  of  gentle  pleasure  in  his  idleness  and  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  dear  ones. 

On  the  next  day  he  was  not  well  and  he  resolved 
that  he  would  do  wisely  to  remain  at  home.  When 
the  evening  came  his  condition  was  so  unusual  that 
Rachel  would  send  Abby  to  bring  the  doctor,  and 
the  doctor  told  him  to  stay  in  bed  on  the  following 


Into  a  Far  Country.          315 

morning.  Isaac  went  to  bed  that  night  for  the  last 
time.  Before  the  week  was  out  he  had  failed  so  far 
that  the  physician  had  secret  fear  of  fatal  results.  The 
patient  found  in  his  own  soul  presentiment  that  he 
should  not  recover.  The  strain  had  been  too  great. 
The  silver  cord  was  loosening.  The  heart  of  man 
cannot  forever  resist  the  crushing  blows  of  misfor- 
tune. This  man's  spirit  was  broken.  He  could  strive 
no  more ;  he  could  endure  no  longer. 

Except  for  the  parting  from  his  wife  and  his  girl 
he  would  have  greeted  with  exultation  the  prospect 
of  release.  As  it  was,  he  looked  straight  before  him 
into  the  Valley  of  Shadows  with  a  kind  of  tranquil 
sadness.  Religious  hope  he  had,  and  it  brought  to 
his  soul  serenity.  Just  what  lay  beyond  in  that 
strange  Mystery-land  of  which  we  think  so  much 
and  know  so  little,  he  could  not  fully  understand,  but 
he  was  well  assured  that  it  would  have  peace  for  him, 
and  peace  he  most  passionately  coveted.  Sometimes, 
lying  alone  in  the  sick  chamber  and  thinking  of  all 
the  tumult  and  tragedy  of  the  life  that  lay  behind  him, 
he  turned  his  thought  toward  that  Far  Country  where 
the  weary  are  at  rest  and  laughed  quietly  to  himself 
while  he  contemplated  the  joy  that  he  believed  was 
awaiting  him.  "No  more  money-troubles;  no  more 
trafficking;  no  more  losing  bargains;  no  more  roar- 
ing furnaces;  no  more  wrangling  with  laborers;  no 
more  harsh  words  from  disappointed  creditors;  no 
more  sorrow  or  pain  or  crying;  no  more  fatigue,  no 
more  distress;  just  sweet,  alluring,  satisfying,  ever- 
lasting peace.  A  sharp  pang  came  to  him  now  and 
then  as  he  thought  of  the  wife  of  his  youth  left 


316  The  Quakeress. 

behind  and  of  Abby ;  but  he  was  helpless  and  to  worry 
were  useless.  He  could  not  open  his  heart  fully  even  to 
his  beloved  Rachel.  Always  he  had  been  an  inarticu- 
late man,  unable  to  voice  his  deeper  feeling;  and  so 
now,  when  he  spoke  to  Rachel  of  his  departure,  he 
could  but  kiss  her  and  stroke  her  hair  and  say  to  her : 

"It  will  be  hard  for  thee,  dearest,  but  thee  will  not 
suffer  long,  my  Rachel.  God  will  give  thee  to  me 
once  more  in  that  better  country;  and  while  thee 
waits  the  summons  thee  will  find  a  helper  in  George." 

And  to  Abby  he  said : 

"Thee  has  been  a  good  child  to  me,  dear  Abigail. 
God  bless  thee  my  daughter,  and  bring  thee  to  me 
again  when  thy  call  shall  come." 

So,  when  the  weeks  had  sped  away  "and  the  frail 
body  became  more  frail,  the  farewells  had  all  been 
said,  and  one  night  while  Rachel  clasped  his  hand 
and  watched  him,  she  felt  the  hand  grow  cold  as  the 
heart-beat  gently  ceased  and  Isaac,  like  a  child  falling 
into  happy  slumber,  drifted  out  and  away  to  the 
spirit-land. 

Rachel  thought  him  beautiful  as  he  lay  there  with 
the  sweet  face,  the  small  aquiline  nose,  the  grey  eye- 
brows, the  sensitive  mouth  and  the  thick  and  soft 
white  hair  tossed  about  his  head.  She  saw  him  in  her 
memory  as  he  had  been  in  the  far  past  when  his  hair 
was  brown;  always  handsome  and  gentle;  always  with 
refinement  and  high  breeding  in  face  and  manner; 
always  since  she  knew  him  the  gentleman,  the  true 
lover,  the  faithful  husband,  the  devout  follower  of 
Christ;  and  as  she  looked  and  remembered  and  the 
waves  of  desolation  poured  in  upon  her  soul,  now  so 


Into  a  Far  Country.          317 

lonely  and  sorrowful,  she  found  in  her  heart  a  long- 
ing desire  to  make  haste  to  follow  him  into  'that  City 
of  God  which  hath  foundations. 

And  Abby  gazed  into  the  white  face  and  thanked 
God  again  and  again  that  He  had  not  permitted  her 
in  her  madness  and  folly  to  put  a  still  heavier  burden 
of  suffering  upon  this  father  who  had  suffered  so 
much.  "How  dreadful  it  would  be,"  she  thought,  "if 
I  were  far  away  and  mother  were  here  alone  with  no 
cne  to  comfort  her;"  and  then  Abby  tried  to  resolve 
more  firmly  than  ever  that  she  would  keep  her  prom- 
ise to  sever  the  tie  that  bound  her  to  Clayton. 

George  was  the  first  to  call  when  Isaac's  death  was 
made  known,  and  Mrs.  Ponder  was  eager  to  give 
consolation  and  friendly  help  in  the  things  that  must 
be  done  even  while  grief  is  most  poignant. 

The  arrangements  for  the  burial  were  made  by 
George,  and  the  day  was  set. 

It  was  a  grey  clay,  warm  with  the  warmth  of  the 
end  of  May,  and  with  the  trees  putting  out  their  leaf- 
buds  and  the  grass  showing  green  in  the  gardens  and 
on  both  sides  of  the  flagged  foot-pavements. 

The  attendance  was  large.  Many  friends  came  up 
in  the  train  from  the  city,  and  from  all  the  country- 
side the  members  of  Plymouth  Meeting  drove  into 
Connock  to  pay  the  last  debt  of  courtesy  to  the  man 
who  had  been  called  away.  The  streets  by  the  grey 
house  were  thronged  by  carriages  from  which  broad- 
hatted  men  helped  women  in  plain  attire  to  alight; 
and  when  the  horses  had  been  hitched  to  a  tree  or 
left  in  the  care  of  the  hired  men  who  drove  them, 
the  Friends  entered  the  house  until  at  last  it  was 


318  The  Quakeress. 

crowded  and  overflowed  upon  the  porch  and  into  the 
garden. 

The  body  of  the  dead  man  lay  in  the  coffin  in  the 
long  north  parlor.  The  shutters  were  nearly  closed 
so  that  the  room  seemed  dark  even  to  those  who 
came  from  the  light  of  the  clouded  day.  There  was 
a  heavy  odor  of  flowers,  and  women  in  Friends'  dress 
clustered  in  the  ends  of  the  room  where  chairs  had 
been  placed.  Neighbors  and  visitors  from  afar  came 
continuously  in  long  procession  through  the  great 
double-door  of  the  parlor,  then  walked  around  the 
coffin,  gazed  for  a  moment  upon  the  tranquil  face 
upturned  from  the  satin-cushion  and  moved  slowly 
from  the  room. 

Outside,  on  the  front  porch,  were  half  a  dozen 
groups  of  men,  some  of  them  Friends,  most  of  them 
townspeople  who  had  known  Isaac.  Many  were 
standing;  a  few  sat  upon  or  leaned  against  the  railing 
of  the  porch;  others  had  chairs.  Their  countenances 
were  set  for  gravity,  but  upon  the  whole  cheerfulness 
was  not  completely  suppressed.  The  talk  was  low- 
toned,  but  it  was  of  politics  and  of  the  crops,  and  of 
the  drift  of  the  war,  and  of  the  advancing  price  of 
gold,  and  sometimes  about  Isaac  Woolford. 

"Does  he  leave  anything?"  asked  Peter  Ruddick 
up  at  the  end  of  the  porch  where  he  could  spit  com- 
fortably over  the  railing. 

"Not  much,  I  am  afraid,"  answered  William  Conly 
from  the  arm-chair  tilted  back  against  the  wall  of  the 
house.  "Things  have  gone  hard  with  Isaac  since  the 
furnace  chilled." 

"George  has  most  of  it,  I  reckon,"  said  Thomas 


Into  a  Far  Country.  319 

Shorter.  "He  backed  Isaac  heavily,  and  a  man  always 
has  to  pay  for  that." 

"George  never  fails  to  take  care  of  George,"  said 
Peter.  "But  I  must  say  he  is  a  good  fellow." 

"If  he  marries  the  girl  it  will  come  out  even," 
observed  Mr.  Shorter. 

"Yes,"  said  Conly,  "if.  But  it  has  looked  for  a 
good  while  as  if  she  wouldn't  have  him." 

"A  pity,  too,"  said  Shorter,  "for  his  sake  and  for 
hers,  particularly  if  Isaac's  estate  has  gone  to  pieces." 

Two  new  men  came  into  the  group,  and  the  dis- 
cussion of  Isaac's  affairs  began  over  again.  Peter 
Ruddick  improved  the  chance,  while  his  compaions' 
backs  were  turned,  to  climb  over  the  railing  and  to 
go  to  his  store  by  way  of  the  side-gate.  He  had  paid 
the  debt  of  neighborliness  by  showing  himself  at  the 
house  and  that  was  enough,  he  thought.  Thomas 
Shorter,  under  pretence  of  gauging  the  weather  by  a 
glance  at  the  sky,  went  out  to  the  front  grass-plot  and 
ran  his  eye  over  the  house  and  the  garden  for  the 
hundredth  time.  He  wanted  such  a  place  and  he  had 
long  hoped  this  one  might  be  offered  for  sale. 

All  the  groups  upon  the  porch  and  upon  the  grass- 
plots  made  guesses  about  the  condition  of  Isaac's 
estate,  and  the  future  of  the  widow  and  George's 
chances  with  Abby.  More  than  one  of  them  thought 
the  widow  might  give  up  housekeeping  and  consid- 
ered what,  in  that  case,  they  would  be  willing  to  bid 
on  Isaac's  buggy  or  Isaac's  horses  or  upon  his  dou- 
ble sleigh. 

If  a  man  could  foresee  and  forehear  the  movements 
and  the  talk  at  his  funeral  he  would  have  a  lovely 


3  2°  The  Quakeress. 

lesson  in  humility.  We  think  our  fellows  think  so 
much  of  us,  and  we  take  our  own  estimates  of  our- 
selves as  the  representative  of  their  estimate,  and  so 
we  swell  our  pride.  Then,  when  they  come  to  pay 
their  last  tribute  and  to  stand  among  the  mourners, 
curiosity  and  covetousness  and  a  little  smothered  exul- 
tation that  death  has  spared  them,  fill  their  minds. 

The  neighbors  do  care  that  a  good  man  has  gone 
away,  but  why  should  they  be  expected  to  care 
much?  The  conclusion  was  foregone;  the  heavy 
burdens  of  their  own  lives  remain  with  them.  Sorrow 
has  been  in  their  homes  and  love  has  had  tears  that 
no  neighborly  feeling  can  summon.  Men  are  dying 
all  about  them ;  death  is  commonplace  excepting  when 
it  strikes  into  the  home-circle,  and  the  fountains  of 
feeling  cannot  be  tapped  continuously.  Isaac  is  dead, 
but  the  survivors  must  go  on  still,  and  going  on 
means  trade  and  war  and  politics  and  work.  Isaac's 
house  and  horses  and  carriages  remain.  Somebody 
must  have  them.  If  they  are  to  be  sold,  may  I  not 
have  an  eye  to  them  and  a  thought  for  them,  even 
while  I  am  sorry  he  has  gone  and  breathe  a  sigh  or 
two  for  the  widow  and  the  orphan?  The  preacher 
within  the  house  is  speaking  of  the  shortness  and 
uncertainty  of  human  life.  I  know  about  that  already; 
but  there  must  be  bread  and  butter  and  shelter  even 
if  life  have  brevity;  and  besides,  to  Peter  Ruddick, 
for  example,  the  death  of  Isaac  Woolford  seems  the 
most  ordinary  and  usual  of  happenings.  The  thing 
that  seems  extraordinary,  unusual,  startling,  stupen- 
dous and  very,  very  far  away  is  the  death  of  Peter 
Ruddick.  He  would  rather  not  think  about  that 


Into  a  Far  Country. 


321 


until  he  is  older — much  older.  The  paternal  Ruddick 
died  at  eighty-seven  and  Peter  is  but  sixty-two. 
When  the  thought  of  the  end  will  force  itself  upon 
Peter's  reluctant  mind  he  always  regards  father  as  a 
precedent,  and,  mentally  subtracting  sixty-two  from 
eighty-seven,  counts  that  he  still  has  twenty-five  full 
years  to  make  ready  in.  Meantime,  a  horse-trade  now 
and  then  may  be  useful. 

In  the  house  the  broad  hallway  is  lined  on  both 
sHes  with  people  who  are  quiet,  or  who  speak  in 
whispers.  Men  and  women  sit  upon  the  stairs.  The 
dining-room  and  the  sitting-room  on  the  south  side 
of  the  hall  are  filled.  Upstairs,  in  their  own  cham- 
ber, sit  Rachel  and  Abby,  not  in  mourning  dress,  but 
sad  and  weeping,  with  deep  grief  at  the  heart.  About 
them  cluster  their  nearest  kin.  George  is  in  the 
adjoining  room  with  the  relatives  not  so  near,  and 
other  kinsfolk  and  dear  friends  are  in  the  rooms  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house.  Here  there  is  perfect 
silence.  Below  there  is  no  noise  and  no  movement, 
excepting  that  the  undertaker,  clad  in  sombre  garb, 
and  having  a  queer  mingling  of  gloom  and  business 
eagerness  in  his  face,  goes  hither  and  thither,  half 
upon  tip-toe,  giving  whispered  directions.  It  is  sur- 
prising how  many  persons  he  must  speak  to,  and 
equally  surprising  how.  much  satisfaction  is  found  in 
their  momentary  importance  by  two  or  three  of 
Isaac's  friends  who  have  agreed  to  help. 

Some  of  the  people  feared  there  would  be  no 
speaking,  but  after  a  while  the  shrill  voice  of  a  woman 
was  heard  from  the  second-story  hall.  In  a  kind  of 
high  recitative,  without  inflection,  she  prayed  briefly 


322  The  Quakeress. 

and  monotonously  for  grace  for  all  the  company 
there  gathered  in  the  house  of  mourning.  The  end 
of  the  petition  came  abruptly,  as  when  water  is  cut 
off  without  a  dribble  by  the  swift  closing  of  a  faucet. 

The  silence  seemed  deeper  than  it  had  done  before 
she  spoke.  Then  another  woman's  voice  was  heard 
from  the  landing  upon  the  staircase.  It  was  soft  and 
tender  and  lovely  like  the  flute-stop  of  an  organ.  One 
listened  and  in  one's  mind  figured  the  woman's  face 
as  of  angelic  beauty.  She  spoke  with  perfect  grace 
and  perfect  fluency  and  the  message  was  of  peace  to 
the  souls  of  those  that  were  desolate,  and  of  gentle 
warning  to  others  not  to  neglect  the  pleadings  of  that 
Spirit  whose  very  nature  is  Love. 

There  was  a  glimpse  of  heaven  while  the  music  of 
that  voice  was  heard,  and  Abby  felt  that  she  would  be 
glad  if  no  more  were  said ;  but  at  once  a  man  without 
the  room  began  to  speak.  His  opening  words  were 
those  of  prayer,  but  soon  he  seemed  to  forget  that 
prayer  had  been  his  purpose  and  he  turned  to  remin- 
iscences of  his  long  acquaintance  with  Isaac.  These 
involved  a  number  of  interesting  transactions,  some 
of  them  so  far  removed  from  sentiment  as  the  bor- 
rowing of  a  set  of  buggy  harness  and  what  "Isaac 
said"  and  what  "I  said,"  before  and  after  the  event. 
At  last  the  speaker,  still  forgetful  of  his  intention  to 
pray,  diverged  to  a  little  sermon  upon  the  awfulness 
of  death  and  upon  the  positive  certainty  that  the 
Friends'  way  of  getting  ready  for  it  is  the  only  way 
deserving  of  attention  from  reasonable  beings. 

Silence  fell  again,  and  then  the  undertaker  whis- 
pered that  the  people  had  better  go.  Some  of  them 


Into  a  Far  Country. 


323 


lingered  to  take  another  look  at  Isaac's  face;  but 
soon  all  were  gone  and  then  Rachel  and  Abby  came 
down  with  the  relatives  and  friends  and  the  procession 
moved  slowly  toward  Plymouth. 

There  in  the  grassy  burial-ground  they  gathered 
about  the  grave,  and  there  beneath  the  sycamore 
trees,  in  silence,  they  gave  the  body  to  its  mother 
earth.  No  word  was  said,  no  bell  was  tolled,  no  hymn 
was  sung,  but  the  wife  and  the  daughter  turned  away 
from  the  grave  and  crept  into  the  carriage  again  to 
return  to  the  home  which  had  become  desolate. 

Isaac  left  no  will,  and  so  at  the  request  of  Rachel 
and  equipped  with  authority  by  the  county  court, 
George  Fotherly  undertook  the  ungrateful  task  of 
disposing  of  the  estate  to  the  creditors.  The  furnace 
was  taken  over  by  a  group  of  men  to  whom  Isaac 
was  indebted  and  there  was  good  promise  that,  by  an 
investment  of  new  money,  it  could  be  made  profita- 
ble. With  it  went  the  Ridge  tract  when  George's 
mortgage  had  been  satisfied,  and  some  other  pieces 
of  property  were  disposed  of  until  nothing  was  left 
but  the  grey  house  which  had  been  pledged  to 
George.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  forego  all 
claim  to  it,  but  Rachel  would  not  hear  of  that.  She 
insisted  that  she  could  pay  interest  on  the  debt,  of 
which  it  may  be  said  Abby  knew  nothing. 

After  taking  counsel  with  George  and  with  certain 
wise  Friends  who  were  anxious  to  help  her,  Rachel 
resolved  that  she  would  maintain  herself  by  taking 
boarders.  She  had  a  charming  home  for  the  right 
kind  of  people  and  there  could  be  no  trouble  in  filling 
the  house  with  members  of  her  own  religious  society. 


324  The  Quakeress. 

Friends  always  stand  by  one  another,  and  if  she 
had  been  willing  many  right  hands  (the  left  hands 
not  admitted  to  the  secret)  would  have  brought  help 
to  her  in  generous  measure.  But  there  would  be  help 
enough,  she  thought,  in  a  throng  of  boarders  who 
should  find  comfort  and  delight  in  so  good  a  lodging 
place  in  so  lovely  a  situation. 

But,  before  all  her  plans  were  made,  and  before  the 
house  had  new  inmates,  an  attractive  offer  came  to 
Abby  and  it  must  have  serious  consideration. 

As  soon  as  the  war  opened  streams  of  runaway 
slaves  began  to  pour  across  the  Potomac  river  into 
Maryland,  whence  the  currents  swept  upward  into 
Pennsylvania.  But  many  of  the  negroes,  usually  the 
most  torpid  and  helpless,  lingered  in  Maryland,  and 
among  these  were  many  children. 

The  Quaker,  hating  human  slavery,  had  always 
had  a  quick  sense  of  obligation  to  its  black  victims 
and  had  never  failed  to  strive  to  meet  the  obligation 
fully.  And  so,  very  early  in  the  war-time,  and  while 
yet  there  were  no  other  benevolences  provided  for  the 
forlorn  multitude  of  the  fugitive  negroes,  the  Friends 
began  the  work  of  caring  for  them. 

One  little  instrument  for  bringing  help  to  'the 
blacks  was  a  school  for  young  negro  children  begun 
in  Sharpsburg,  Maryland,  not  far  from  the  Potomac. 
It  had  backing  from  a  Quaker  family  in  that  town  and 
it  had  approval  and  money-help  from  Friends  in 
Pennsylvania.  The  first  teacher  had  not  succeeded 
very  well,  and  when  the  friends  of  the  school  came  to 
cast  about  for  her  successor,  some  one  suggested 
Abby's  name  and  the  place  was  offered  to  her. 


Into  a  Far  Country.          325 

There  was  sorrowful  talk  about  it  in  the  grey  house 
when  the  letter  came.  The  mother  yearned  over  the 
only  loved  one  left  to  her  and  Abby's  heart  was  heavy 
as  she  thought  of  separation  and  of  Rachel's  loneli- 
ness. But  the  promised  salary  was  not  of  mean  dimen- 
sions and  a  nice  home  was  provided  in  the  house  of  the 
Cleggs,  who  had  started  the  school  and  were  members 
of  the  Society  of  Friends. 

George  Fotherley's  advice  was  asked,  and  his  wish 
was  that  Abby  should  not  go;  but  he  could  not  be 
urgent  that  his  way  should  be  approved,  for  he  dared 
not  offer  to  Rachel  the  financial  help  he  would  have 
given  joyfully,  and  he  knew  that  the  burden  upon  the 
mother  would  probably  be  lightened  if  the  daughter 
could  provide  for  herself  and  have  a  small  surplus  at 
the  end  of  the  year.  But  George  could  promise  to  go 
with  Abby  to  the  Maryland  town  and  to  help  her  to 
overcome  her  first  feeling  of  loneliness,  while  he 
should  see  the  place  and  the  people  and  the  school 
and  bring  back  to  the  mother  in  Connock  something 
to  comfort  and  assure  her. 

So,  then,  Abby  accepted  the  offer  that  she  should 
become  a  teacher,  and  Rachel  summoned  to  the  grey 
house  for  companionship  and  help  her  widowed  sis- 
ter, who  had  been  living  in  lodgings  and  to  whom 
Connock  was  as  attractive  as  the  great  city. 

With  warnings  and  good  counsel  from  the  mother, 
and  strong  promises  and  many  words  of  love  from 
the  daughter,  and  abundant  tears  from  both,  the  part- 
ing was  made,  and  with  George  by  her  side  the  long 
journey  was  begun.  It  was  for  him  a  day  of  much 
happiness,  despite  the  fact  that  separation  from  the 


326  The  Quakeress. 

woman  he  loved  was  near.  There  was  joy  in  the 
spending  of  the  whole  day  in  her  company,  and  he 
was  so  kind,  so  thoughtful,  so  eager  to  dispel  her 
gloomy  thoughts,  and  his  love  shone  so  brightly  iri 
his  face  and  in  his  conduct,  that  Abby,  long  before  the 
journey  was  ended,  had  in  her  heart  a  little  glow  of 
gratitude  which  once  she  would  have  thought  meant 
love. 

There  was  no  discontentment  in  the  hearts  of  the 
travelers  when  they  had  tarried  for  a  while  in  the 
Clegg  homestead  and  had  felt  the  warmth  of  the  wel- 
come from  the  sweet  Quaker  woman  and  the  venera- 
ble Quaker  man  who  formed  the  household.  George 
was  reassured.  He  should  have  a  pleasant  story  to 
take  back  to  Rachel,  and  Abby  felt  that  if  she  could 
escape  homesickness  anywhere  away  from  Connock 
it  would  be  in  this  place  of  peace. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
The  School-House. 

THE  house  in  which  the  Cleggs  lived  was  of  stone, 
with  a  portico  upon  the  front,  and  with  all  the  wood- 
work shining  with  white  paint  so  bright  that  it  might 
have  been  freshly  laid.  The  windows  in  the  two 
stories  had  heavy  wooden  shutters  upon  the  outside 
and  were  screened  within  by  grey-colored  slatted 
blinds.  The  roof  was  crowned  by  a  railed  platform 
which  was  also  white.  The  house  was  double,  with 
wide  rooms  on  either  side  of  a  spacious  hall.  It 
stood  forty  feet  or  more  from  the  street.  In  front 
of  it  there  was  a  lawn  dotted  by  flower-beds,  and 
groups  of  trees  were  gathered  at  the  ends  of  the 
building,  so  that  when  Abby  and  George  opened  the 
gate  and  came  up  the  graveled  path  to  the  front-door 
the  house  seemed  to  be  fairly  framed  in  green. 
Within  as  without  there  was  beauty  with  simplicity. 
The  art  of  the  cultivated  Quaker  is  to  attain  loveli- 
ness with  as  little  help  as  may  be  possible  irom  orna- 
ment. 

The  dwellers  in  this  solid  and  charming  home  were 
two  Quakers  ,for  whom  such  a  living-place  seemed 
exactly  fit.  Thomas  Clegg  and  his  wife  Tacy  were 
Friends  of  a  strict  type  in  dress,  speech  and  conduct. 
The  Light  had  shone  in  upon  them  long  ago  and 
taught  them  that  the  higher  things,  with  all  they  cost 
in  attainment,  are  the  best  things,  but  that  the  world 

(327) 


The  Quakeress. 


has  among  its  perishable  things  many  that  need  not 
be  despised.  It  had  always  been  their  plan  to  put 
the  spiritual  life  and  its  requirements  first,  and  then 
to  find  pleasure  in  all  the  physical  life  affords  that 
does  not  retard  the  movement  towards  spiritual 
development. 

They  were  quiet  people  with  quiet  pleasures,  and 
yet  Abby  thought  she  found  cheerfulness,  if  not  joy- 
fulness,  the  characteristic  of  the  family  life.  Friend 
Tacy  was  a  little  woman  with  a  bright  merry  face 
looking  out  from  the  cap  that  came  down  about  her 
cheeks,  and  she  was  always  fond  of  a  jest  and  a  smile. 
Her  husband  was  more  grave,  but  he  laughed  with 
her,  and  sometimes  joked  with  her,  and  Abby  saw  at 
once  that  Tacy's  lightness  and  brightness  and  sweet 
cheery  talk  were  to  him  the  most  pleasant  things  in 
life. 

Evidently  there  was  large  prosperity  for  these  two 
good  Friends.  With  it  came  contentment.  In  Abby's 
home  the  business  troubles  of  her  father  had  always 
weighed  heavily  upon  him  and  made  him  incline  to 
sadness,  and  her  mother's  natural  gravity  had  been 
deepened  by  the  share  of  trouble  that  must  be  borne 
by  her.  Until  Abby  came  into  the  household  of  the 
Cleggs  and  found  how  well  mirthfulness  and  joyous- 
ness  may  be  fitted  to  holiness  of  life  and  of  behavior, 
she  had  not  realized  in  what  degree  the  atmosphere 
of  the  grey  house  had  been  made  sombre  by  the  dis- 
positions as  well  as  the  misfortunes  of  its  inmates. 

Here,  then,  she  found  influences  which  tended  to 
make  the  weight  of  her  sorrow  less,  and  to  tranquil- 
ize  her  spirit.  She  felt,  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 


The  School-House.          329 

door  and  looked  at  the  dear  little  Quakeress  who 
flung  her  arms  about  the  girl's  neck  and  gave  her  a 
welcoming  kiss,  that  she  should  love  this  house  and 
its  inmates  and  find  in  their  companionship  sweet  peace. 

Before  George  should  go  home  with  comforting 
news  to  the  anxious  mother  in  Connock,  he  would  see 
the  school-house,  and  thither  he  went  that  very  after- 
noon with  Friend  Tacy  and  Abby. 

"Now,"  said  Tacy,  as  they  walked  briskly  down  the 
street,  "thee  must  not  expect  too  much.  Has  thee  thy 
mind  fixed  upon  some  great  building  of  marble  and 
with  Corinthian  columns  and  carved  work?  Thee 
must  unfix  it  then  and  do  so  quickly,  or  the  shock 
will  be  too  severe  when  thee  sees  the  edifice." 

Abby  laughed  and  said : 

"Really  I  have  no  great  expectations." 

"No,"  continued  Tacy,  "for  thee  will  have  no  schol- 
ars but  little  bits  of  pickaninnies,  all  black  as  coal,  and 
a  fine  house  would  scare  them.  They  could  not  keep 
their  minds  on  the  spelling  book  and  the  Rule  of 
Three.  Thee  will  teach  the  Rule  of  Three,  won't 
thee?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Abby.  "I  must  find  out  how 
much  they  know.  We  can't  begin  there,  can  we?" 

"No,  and  I  fear  the  last  teacher  did  not  bring  them 
anywhere  near  to  it,"  said  Tacy. 

The  school-house  was  a  wooden  cabin,  shingled 
and  nicely  painted,  containing  one  room  with  desks 
and  chairs  and,  on  a  low  platform,  a  chair  and  a  table 
for  the  teacher.  It  was  clean  and  comfortable  and 
entirely  suitable,  and  Abby  was  satisfied  with  it.  She 
was  particularly  pleased  to  find  that  it  stood  at  the 


330  The  Quakeress. 

border  of  a  wood  just  at  the  edge  of  the  town  and 
that  upon  three  sides  of  it  was  a  grassy  common 
whereon  the  children  could  play. 

George  went  homeward  in  the  morning  and  Abby 
was  almost  surprised  to  find  herself  already  upon  such 
terms  with  Friend  Tacy  that  she  could  part  with 
George  without  feeling  that  he  was  leaving  her  with 
strangers. 

She  plunged  at  once  into  her  work.  The  school 
had  a  score  of  negro  children,  blowsy,  ragged  and 
noisy,  and  without  a  ray  of  light  in  their  minds.  They 
were  ignorant,  but  not  stupid.  They  wanted  to  learn, 
they  were  obedient  and  tractable  and  it  was  plain 
enough  that  they  liked  the  new  teacher  at  once.  It 
could  not  have  been  in  the  nature  of  any  child,  how- 
ever ill-born  and  sullen,  to  fail  to  love  that  sweet  face 
turned  from  the  little  platform  day  after  day  upon 
these  outcast  members  of  a  forlorn  and  despised  race. 

Abby  found  the  work  delightful.  She  felt  all  her 
woman-nature  go  out  in  pity  for  these  poor  little 
creatures  committed  to  her  care,  and  she  experienced 
a  kind  of  exhilaration  as  she  found  her  knowledge 
being  imparted  to  their  minds  and  gaining  lodgment 
there.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  were  giving  up  part 
of  herself  to  enrich  them  and  to  lift  them  up  from 
their  low  estate,  and  the  sacrifice  seemed  joyful  to 
her.  As  the  children  made  headway,  her  interest  in 
them  deepened  and  more  earnestly  she  tried  to 
impart  to  them  not  alone  the  little  shreds  of  learning 
in  the  books,  but  some  notion  of  the  divine  things 
and  of  the  meaning  of  the  words  character  and  con- 
duct. They  were  too  young  for  her  to  go  at  all 


The  School- House.          331 

beyond  the  first  things  in  religion,  but  the  teacher 
thought  a  way  had  been  found  for  her  to  let  a  glim- 
mer of  light  shine  in  upon  their  minds. 

Thus  Abby  found  for  herself  at  last  a  good  measure 
of  peace.  Her  thoughts  were  diverted  from  herself; 
new  sources  of  interest  were  opened,  and  in  service 
for  those  that  were  helpless  and  wretched,  she  found 
a  kind  of  happiness.  She  learned  that  the  sure  medi- 
cine for  the  heart-ache  is  to  try  to  alleviate  the  suffer- 
ings of  others,  and  that  the  ministry  of  helpfulness  is 
the  open-door  to  blessedness. 

Love  for  Clayton  was  still  in  Abby's  heart,  and 
sometimes  when  she  thought  of  him  and  of  the 
impassable  barrier  now  erected  between  them,  her  sor- 
row came  to  her  again  with  dreadful  force;  but  most 
of  the  time  she  succeeded  in  mastering  her  spirit; 
while  she  strove  to  concentrate  her  thought  on  her 
work  and  to  do  it  diligently,  delighting  meanwhile  in 
the  companionship  of  the  Cleggs.  For  the  first  time 
since  Clayton  came  into  her  life  she  had  tranquillity. 

Thus  half  the  summer  passed  away  and  the  end  of 
July  was  near  with  a  promise,  it  seemed  to  Abby, 
that  her  peace  would  be  no  more  disturbed. 

Late  in  July  George  Fotherly  was  summoned  by 
a  concern  of  business  to  visit  Hagerstown,  in  Mary- 
land, at  the  upper  end  of  the  Cumberland  Valley,  and 
when  he  had  completed  his  errand  he  could  not 
refuse  himself  the  pleasure  of  going  over  to  Sharps- 
burg,  but  a  few  miles  distant,  to  visit  Abby.  He 
reached  that  town  in  the  afternoon  and  went  at  once 
to  the  house  of  the  Cleggs,  thinking  to  meet  Abby 
there;  but  she  had  not  yet  returned  from  school. 


332  The  Quakeress. 

He  resolved  then  to  seek  for  her,  and  with  Friend 
Tacy  Clegg  accompanying  him,  he  went  toward  the 
school-house. 

Less  than  an  hour  before  his  arrival  at  the  village, 
Abby,  having  completed  all  the  lessons  for  the  day, 
had  gathered  her  pupils  about  her  and  was  speaking 
to  them  a  few  words  of  admonition  before  dismissing 
them.  In  the  midst  of  her  talk  she  looked  up  and 
there,  in  the  open  doorway,  directly  across  the  room 
from  her,  she  saw  Clayton  Harley.  He  was  in  citi- 
zen's dress,  with  a  slouched  hat  the  brim  of  which 
was  turned  up  from  his  face.  He  removed  the  hat 
and  bowed  low  to  Abby,  saying  "Good  afternoon !" 

Abby  was  so  startled  by  the  apparition  that  she 
felt  as  if  she  could  not  command  her  speech  or  her 
movements.  She  thought  she  should  swoon.  But 
making  a  strong  effort,  she  told  the  children  to  go 
home,  and  rising  from  her  chair,  she  moved  with 
them  toward  the  door. 

Clayton  entered  the  room  and  stood  by  one  of  the 
desks,  and  it  was  in  Abby's  thought  to  pass  him  by, 
with  perhaps  a  word  of  greeting,  and  following  the 
scholars  to  the  street,  to  speed  homeward  without 
further  conversation  with  Clayton.  But  he  would 
not  have  it  so. 

He  came  near  to  the  door  again  and  partly  barr- 
ing the  way,  put  out  his  hand  and  said : 

"Have  you  no  welcome  for  me,  Abby?" 

The  girl  refused  the  hand  and  drawing  back, 
answered : 

"I  may  not  meet  with  thee  any  more." 

She  was  so  unnerved  and  distracted  that  she  must 


School-House. 


333 


needs  find  a  seat.  She  could  no  longer  stand.  She 
retreated  to  the  platform  and  sat  in  her  teacher's 
chair.  Clayton  shut  the  door  and  came  nearer  to 
her,  leaning  upon  one  of  the  desks.  He  was  sur- 
prised and  troubled  by  her  treatment  of  him. 

"I  am  sent  upon  a  mission  to  this  region,"  he 
said.  "I  knew  you  were  here  and  I  could  not  endure 
that  I  should  not  see  you.  May  I  not  clasp  your  hand, 
my  Abby?" 

"No,  thee  must  not!"  replied  the  girl. 

"You  love  me  no  more?" 

"I  cannot  answer  thee." 

"You  hate  me,"  said  Clayton  sadly,  "because  I 
asked  you  to  fly  with  me.  I  beg  you  to  forgive  that 
act  of  folly.  I  am  glad  you  did  not  come  to  me." 

"No!"  said  Abby,  "I  do  not  hate  thee,  but  I  have 
promised  my  mother  I  would  receive  thee  no  more. 
Thee  must  go  away  from  me.  O !  please  do  not 
compel  me  to  break  my  promise." 

"I  will  not,"  answered  Clayton.  "But  how  can  I 
conquer  my  great  love  for  you,  or  forget  how  much 
you  have  loved  me  in  the  past?" 

"We  must  both  forget  it,"  said  Abby.  "It  was  a 
great  sin  against  God.  Since  my  dear  father's  death 
it  has  seemed  to  me  more  terrible  than  ever." 

"Is  your  father  dead,  poor  girl?" 

"Yes,  and  that  is  why  I  am  here,  trying  to  make 
my  own  living." 

Clayton  looked  about  the  room  rather  scornfully: 

"If  your  friends  truly  cared  for  you  they  might 
have  found  something  better  for  you  to  do  than  to 
teach  a  lot  of  little  niggers." 


334  Tke  Quakeress. 

Abby  was  angry.     Her  face  flushed  as  she  said: 
"Thee  will  not  talk  to  me  in  that  way,  please." 
"I   ask   pardon,"   said    Clayton,   humbly.      "I    am 
glad  of  anything  that  has  enabled  me  once  more 
to  see  your  face." 

"Thee  is  in  the  Confederate  army,  is  thee  not? 
Then  what  right  has  thee  to  be  here?" 

"I  have  been  wounded,  and  I  came  home  to 
recover." 

Abby's  cheeks  whitened  and  she  shuddered. 
"Wounded?     And  thee  is  well  again?" 
"It  is  but  a  small  matter.     I  shall  be  in  the  army 
again  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Thee  is  in  peril  while  thee  is  here." 
"I  would  take  much  greater  risks  to  be  with  you." 
"Thee  disregards  the  risk  to  me,"  said  Abby  firmly. 
"Does  thee  not  perceive  that  I  shall  be  involved  in 
scandal  if  thee  is  seen  here?     And  if  thee  is  known 
as  a  Confederate  soldier,  shall  I  not  be  suspected  of 
disloyalty  to  my  country?     Even  now  thee  is  com- 
pelling me  to  be  false  to  my  word.    Thee  must  leave 
me  at  once." 

"It  is  all  true,  and  if  you  will  forgive  me  I  will  go 
away  from  you.  But  O,  my  dearest  Abby,  may  I 
not  hear  you  say  again  that  you  love  me?  May  I 
not  kiss  your  hand  in  remembrance  of  the  past?" 

"Where  is  thy  wife?"  asked  Abby,  trying  to  appear 
cold. 

"Dead,  I  do  truly  believe !"  said  Clayton. 

"But  thee  does  not  know  it  surely?" 

"No;  but  I  will  try  to  learn  the  truth." 

"Thee  says  that  thee  loves  me,  but  thee  cannot 


lie  School- House. 


335 


even  respect  me  if  thee  pursues  me  while  thee  is 
pledged  to  another.  Thy  wife  is  not  dead." 

Her  seeming  coldness  angered  and  inflamed  Clay- 
ton. He  became  more  eager  for  her  as  she  appeared 
to  draw  away  from  him.  He  had  come  to  the  school- 
house  expecting  kisses  and  embraces  and  all  the  fond- 
nesses that  he  had  known  when  first  he  told  his  love 
to  the  girl. 

"You  are  very  harsh  with  me,  Abby,"  he  said, 
"and  you  wrong  me.  I  came  to  you,  with  my  life  in 
my  hand,  in  an  enemy's  country,  because  I  love  you 
dearly.  I  will  persecute  you  no  longer,  if  it  be  per- 
secution. Can  I  believe  your  love  for  me  has  grown 
cold?  I  believe  it  not!  You  are  tied  up  with  an 
accursed  promise.  Now,  once  more,  before  I  turn 
away  from  you,  probably  forever,  I  ask  you  to  kiss 
me  as  in  the  old  time,  that  I  may  still  carry  hope  in 
my  heart." 

Abby  covered  her  face  in  her  hands,  putting  her 
elbows  upon  her  desk.  She  made  no  answer. 

Clayton  came  nearer  to  her.  He  intended  to  be 
persistent  "You  will  kiss  me  once,  Abby?" 

She  shook  her  head,  her  hands  still  on  her  face. 

Clayton's  almost  irresistible  impulse  was  to  tear  her 
hands  away  and  to  kiss  her  cheek,  in  full  confidence  that 
her  wish  was  not  indicated  by  her  action.  This  he 
might  perhaps  have  done,  but  at  that  moment  the  door 
swung  open  and  George  Fotherly  came  into  the  room 
with  Tacy  Clegg. 

When  George  saw  with  startled  mind  Clayton 
standing  there  close  by  Abby  a  great  wave  of  rage 
and  hatred  swept  in  .upon  him.  He  was  compelled 


336  The  Quakeress. 

to  exercise  severe  self-control  to  restrain  himself  from 
flying  at  Clayton  and  rending  him. 

Abby,  hearing  the  footsteps  of  the  visitors,  looked 
up  and  was  appalled  to  perceive  George.  Quickly 
she  covered  her  face  again,  and  then,  in  a  moment,  all 
white  and  trembling,  she  flung  out  her  hands  appeal- 
ingly  to  the  Quaker  preacher  and  exclaimed : 

"O,  George!    Take  me  away  from  here!" 

Then  dropping  her  head  upon  the  desk,  into  her 
palms,  she  began  to  weep  passionately. 

Disconcerted  though  he  was,  Clayton  kept  up  a 
brave  appearance,  and  turning  to  George  and  Tacy 
he  said  quietly: 

"It  is  but  just  to  Miss  Woolford  that  I  should  say 
I  am  here  without  her  connivance.  I  came  upon  her 
unexpectedly." 

"I  can  readily  believe  it,"  responded  George,  com- 
ing forward  and  placing  himself  between  Abby  and 
Clayton.  Tacy  Clegg  went  over  by  the  window  at 
the  side  of  the  room  and  sat  down. 

Clayton  bridled  up  at  George's  remark,  and  said: 

"But  my  right  to  be  here  is  as  good  as  yours." 

"That  may  bear  looking  into,"  said  George.  "The 
person  upon  whom  thee  has  forced  thyself  does  not 
seem  to  think  so." 

"Whether  she  does  or  not  is  her  concern  and 
mine;  not  yours." 

"I  make  it  mine!"  responded  George.  "Thee  is 
in  the  rebel  army,  if  I  am  well-informed." 

Clayton  flinched  at  that. 

"And  if  I  am  in  the  Confederate  army,  what 
then?" 


The  School-House. 


337 


"Then  thee  is  here  unlawfully.  Thee  is  a  spy.  I 
know  no  man  more  fit  for  that  base  business !" 

"You  dare  not  talk  to  me  in  that  way,"  said  Clay- 
ton hotly,  "if  these  women  were  not  here." 

He  advanced  toward  George  and  menaced  him. 
George  did  not  move. 

"I  wish  to  have  no  war  of  words  with  thee,"  said 
the  Quaker,  "but  I  say  to  thee  again,  and  I  will  say 
it  to  the  authorities  when  I  go  from  here,  that  thee 
is  a  rebel  spy.  More  than  this,  thee  is  a  false  hus- 
band and  a  wicked  persecutor  of  this  fair  and  inno- 
cent girl.  Thee  is  not  fit  to  live !" 

George  spoke  these  bitter  words  calmly,  as 
if  there  were  no  rage  in  his  breast.  Abby  could 
not  look  at  either  man.  Shame  for  herself,  pity 
for  Clayton,  half-admiration,  half-indignation  for 
George,  were  in  her  soul  when  she  heard  the  men 
speak. 

Clayton  feared  when  George  threatened  to  denounce 
him,  but  he  could  not  ignominiously  retreat.  He  must 
still  put  on  a  bold  front  in  the  hope  that  some  way 
might  be  found  out  of  his  dilemma. 

He  was  about  to  speak  again  when  George,  with 
an  imperious  gesture,  pointing  to  the  door,  and 
writh  his  face  set  to  hardness,  said  to  him,  in  a  voice 
deepened  by  intense  feeling: 

"Be  gone !  I  give  thee  one  chance  for  thy  evil 
life.  Thee  will  make  haste  or  thee  will  hang  for  it!" 

It  was  too  much  for  the  Marylander.  He  was  no 
coward.  He  could  endure  no  longer  the  well-deserved 
punishment  that  had  befallen  him. 

Springing    at    George    like    a    tiger-cat,    with    a 


338  The  Quakeress. 

scream  of  rage,  he  tried  to  grasp  the  Quaker  by  the 
throat.  George  was  as  quick  as  he.  With  one  strong 
arm  he  fended  off  his  assailant,  and  then,  with  his 
big  right  hand,  seizing  Clayton's  collar,  he  lifted  him 
and  dragged  him  over  the  desks  to  the  door,  where 
he  hurled  the  young  man  out,  and  closing  the  door, 
locked  it. 

Abby  did  not  see  the  combat,  but  she  knew  what 
was  happening  and  she  could  hardly  forbear  to  rush 
forward  to  shield  Clayton  from  George's  anger. 
Friend  Tacy  saw  the  whole  proceeding  and  at  first 
had  some  terror;  but  when  the  climax  came  and  the 
Confederate  disappeared,  she  smiled,  and  coming 
near  to  George,  she  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"It  was  most  unlike  Friends  for  thee  to  do  that, 
but  I  thank  thee !  I  thank  thee  much,  and  I  will  not 
report  thy  behavior  to  thy  meeting." 

Then  she  went  upon  the  platform  and  stooping 
over  Abby,  tried  to  comfort  her. 

Had  George  been  alone,  Clayton  surely  would 
have  returned  to  renew  the  conflict,  but  he  was  not 
eager  to  fight  in  the  presence  of  the  women,  and,  in 
truth,  the  ignominy  that  had  befallen  him  was 
enough,  without  risking  more.  Besides,  he  was  a 
spy  and  he  knew  well  that  the  military  authorities 
would  make  quick  work  with  him  if  George  should 
inform  them. 

So  he  sped  away  swiftly,  mad  with  hate  and 
thwarted  love,  toward  the  crossing  of  the  great  river; 
and  while  he  made  haste,  George  turned  to  Abby 
and  urged  that  she  should  go  homeward  with  him. 

Abby  arose  and  went  to  the  closet  to  find  her 


In  the  School-House. 


339 


bonnet.  Friend  Clegg,  not  fully  understanding  the 
relations  between  the  two  men  and  the  girl,  but  pre- 
suming that  George  and  Clayton  were  merely  rivals 
for  her  affection,  showed  some  disposition  to  be  joc- 
ular concerning  the  matter,  but  with  a  stern  face  and 
a  significant  gesture  George  warned  her  that  the 
business  was  in  truth  most  serious. 

George  shut  the  door  of  the  school-house  as  the 
three  persons  left  it  and  together  they  moved  home- 
ward. Abby  was  persistent  that  Friend  Clegg  should 
go  between  her  and  George,  and  for  a  time  they 
walked  in  silence.  But  Abby  was  deeply  moved. 
"He  knows  Clayton  is  married,"  thought  she,  and 
the  fact  dismayed  her.  She  was  glad  George  had 
come.  She  was  pitiful  for  Clayton's  wound  and  for 
his  humiliation.  George's  prowess  was  wonderful, 
but  she  was  sorry  and  ashamed  for  Clayton.  There 
was  a  strange  whirl  of  passion,  of  grief  and  of  rejoic- 
ing under  that  little  Quaker  bonnet  as  Abby  pressed 
on  with  her  companions.  At  last,  her  grief  for  Clay- 
ton for  the  moment  uppermost  in  her  mind,  she  said : 

"Thee  was  harsh  with  him.  He  was  very  wrong; 
but  he  is  one  of  the  world's  people,  and  thee  has  always 
been  a  consistent  Friend." 

George  could  not  bring  himself  to  repent  what 
he  had  done.  Abby's  words  indeed  hardened  his 
heart.  "Still,"  he  thought,  "she  has  fondness  for 
Clayton." 

"It  would  be  better,"  he  said,  "that  we  should  all 
try  to  forget  the  matter;  but  thee  knows,  Abby,  I 
did  it  for  thee.  It  is  most  grave  that  he  should  seek 
thee  in  such  a  manner.  I  know  thee  thinks  so." 

"Yes!"  murmured  Abby. 


340  The  Quakeress. 

"And  thee  was  weeping  because  of  it  when  we 
came  in.  If  he  would  not  leave  thee  when  he  ought  not 
to  stay,  how  should  he  be  driven  out  but  by  force?" 

"Thee  was  violent.     Thee  put  shame  on  him." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  George  was  vexed 
with  her. 

"Shame,  Abby!  Who  can  put  fresh  shame  upon 
a  man  who  is  a  traitor  to  both  his  country  and  his 
wife?  He  is  not  merely  spotted  with  it;  his  very 
inmost  soul  is  infamous !" 

George  spoke  vehemently.  Friend  Clegg  inter- 
posed and  strove  to  turn  from  the  subject,  but  Abby 
came  between  her  and  George  and  placing  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  she  said : 

"Forgive  me  if  I  seemed  to  reproach  thee!  It  is 
I  who  deserve  reproach." 

"No!"  exclaimed  George,  warmly. 

"But  I  did  not  summon  him.  I  did  not  wish  him 
there.  I  was  angry  when  he  came  and  I  was  glad, 
O,  very,  very  glad,  to  see  thee.  Thee  has  always  been 
my  friend  and  my  helper." 

"I  think  I  would  give  my  life  for  thee,"  said 
George,  solemnly. 

"George,"  she  said  tearfully  and  clinging  to  his 
arm,  "let  me  go  home  with  thee,  I  pray  thee !  I 
am  weary  here.  I  am  afraid !" 

"I  will  take  thee  gladly  if  it  be  right  for  thee  to  go. 
But  is  not  thy  present  duty  here?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  am  too  much  bewildered  to 
form  any  judgment." 

"Let  us  judge  for  thee,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Clegg. 
"Thee  must  stay  here  for  a  while  at  any  rate.  It 


The  School-House. 


341 


will  be  ruin  for  the  school  if  thee  should  leave  it. 
Stay  for  the  summer  at  least  and  Thomas  and  I  will 
be  with  thee,  even  at  the  school-house,  to  see  that 
thee  is  not  molested." 

"Thee  need  have  no  further  fear  of  that  man," 
said  George.  "He  will  not  return.  He  does  not 
covet  death  as  a  spy." 

''Thee  will  not  publicly  denounce  him  now?"  said 
Abby,  anxiously.  "Thee  will  give  him  time  to  escape?" 

"Yes,  but  he  must  come  here  no  more." 

"I  am  sure  he  will  not,"  said  Mrs.  Clegg;  but 
Abby  in  her  heart  was  by  no  means  sure  of  it. 

Abby  went  early  to  bed  that  night,  and  George 
sat  late  with  the  Cleggs  speaking  of  her  and  of  the 
need,  strongly  urged  by  the  Cleggs,  that  she  should 
remain  for  a  time  and  continue  her  work  in  the  school. 

In  the  morning  it  was  not  difficult  to  persuade 
Abby,  who  had  regained  her  composure  and  parted 
with  much  of  her  fear,  that  she  ought  not  to  abandon 
summarily  the  work  to  which  she  had  laid  her  hand 
and  in  which  her  interest  was  deeply  engaged.  So  it 
was  agreed  that  she  should  remain  until  the  summer 
was  ended,  if  no  longer,  and  when  the  Cleggs  had 
promised  that  they  would  see  to  it  that  unwelcome 
visitors  should  not  come  to  the  school-house,  George 
took  leave  of  them  and  of  Abby. 

With  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  she  bade  him  fare- 
well, and  holding  fast  his  hand,  while  she  sent  mes- 
sages of  love  to  her  mother,  she  said  at  the  last: 

"And  again  I  thank  thee,  dear  George,  for  all  thy 
love  and  kindness  and  entreat  thy  forgiveness  for 
my  many  misdeeds !" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

With  Confused  Noise  and  Gar- 
ments Rolled  in  Blood." 

WHEN  George  was  gone  Abby  returned  to  her 
tasks  in  the  little  school-house,  endeavoring  to  fix 
all  her  attention  upon  them  and  to  find  again  the 
quietness  and  peace  so  rudely  disturbed  by  Clay- 
ton's appearance.  The  Cleggs  were  faithful  to  their 
promise  to  try  to  shield  her  from  further  intrusion, 
and  not  infrequently  Mrs.  Clegg  would  spend  a 
large  part  of  the  day  in  or  near  the  schoolhouse. 
Each  afternoon  she  or  her  husband  walked  out  to 
the  place  to  accompany  Abby  homeward  and  both 
husband  and  wife  strove  eagerly  to  dispel  the  gloom 
that  seemed  at  times  to  shroud  the  young  girl's 
spirit. 

The  fact  is  that  Abby  was  far  from  contented  with 
her  cold  repulsion  of  Clayton  and  she  continued  to 
grieve  that  George  should  have  heaped  indignity 
upon  him.  It  was  not  wholly  unsatisfying  to  her 
that  she  had  striven  to  keep  her  promise  to  her 
mother;  but  her  mind  persisted  in  looking  at  her 
conduct  from  Clayton's  side  and  then  she  saw  with 
painful  clearness  how  he  might  have  reason  to  believe 
that  the  strong  love  she  really  had  for  him  had  com- 
pletely vanished. 

Thus  when  she  reviewed  her  behavior  at  the  inter- 

(342) 


'With  Confused  Noise."      343 

view  she  inclined  to  reproach  herself  and  to  believe 
that  if  Clayton  should  come  again,  she  would  open 
her  heart  to  him  no  matter  what  the  consequences 
might  be.  She  had  a  faint  hope  that  he  would 
return;  but  he  did  not,  and  there  were  no  tiding  of 
him,  and  so  the  whole  of  the  month  of  August  and 
part  of  September  slipped  away,  and  hope  of  seeing 
him  almost  died  out  from  her  mind. 

But  before  September  was  old  some  strange  and 
alarming  rumors  came  to  Sharpsburg  from  the  coun- 
try to  the  south  and  the  west  of  it.  There  were  dis- 
tinct indications  that  the  Confederate  army  was  mov- 
ing up  towards  Maryland  and  that  the  Federal  army 
marched  upon  parallel  lines  in  the  same  direction. 

These  indications  became  more  and  more  clear 
until  one  day  the  Confederate  sympathizers  in  the 
town  went  about  with  the  exultant  declaration  that 
Lee's  army  would  be  in  Sharpsburg  on  the  morrow. 
In  the  morning  all  doubts  of  this  movement  had  dis- 
appeared and  the  people  prepared  for  the  coming 
of  the  invader. 

Abby  went  as  usual  to  the  school-house,  but  she 
sent  away  the  scholars  before  the  morning  was  half 
done,  and  then  she  tried  to  decide  for  herself  if  she 
should  go  home  or  remain  in  the  little  building.  She 
had  in  her  soul  a  hope  which  induced  her  to  stay, 
and  so  she  sat  by  the  front  window,  looking  out  over 
the  wide  street,  and  waited  for  the  Confederate  host 
to  appear. 

The  street  was  strangely  quiet.  No  one  was  seen 
upon  it.  All  the  horses  and  wagons  had  vanished 
and  the  stores  were  shut.  Here  and  there  a  bold 


344  The  Quakeress. 

friend  of  the  Southern  cause  fluttered  the  Confed- 
erate flag  from  a  window  or  a  doorway;  but  most  of 
the  people  of  the  town  showed  neither  love  nor  hatred ; 
they  remained  in-doors,  waiting  for  the  great  army 
that  they  knew  was  near. 

Soon  horse-hoofs  were  heard  upon  the  hard  earth 
of  the  street,  and  four  men  in  grey  came  riding  into 
the  village  at  a  slow  trot,  with  carbines  cocked  and 
held  upright  resting  upon  their  thighs,  with  eyes 
glancing  hither  and  thither  in  search  of  Federal 
vedettes.  Then  some  of  the  house-doors  swung  open 
and  women  came  out  to  wave  their  handkerchiefs 
and  to  hurrah  for  the  Confederacy. 

A  few  moments  after  the  four  horsemen  had  gone 
by  a  group  of  a  hundred  or  more  dashed  into  the 
street  and  followed  the  four.  Some  of  these  responded 
to  the  greetings  of  the  women  upon  the  door  steps, 
but  most  of  them  looked  grim  and  tired  and  indifferent 
even  to  a  woman's  welcome. 

When  they  had  gone  by,  there  was  silence  for  half 
an  hour,  when  a  great  body  of  cavalry  came  through 
the  town  at  a  brisk  trot  with  sabres  jingling,  accou- 
trements rattling,  and  the  faces  of  the  men  set  hard 
with  weariness  and  with  a  consciousness  of  stern 
work  to  be  encountered,  possibly  before  the  day 
was  done. 

The  horsemen  passed,  and  then  again,  as  Abby 
watched,  there  was  no  further  sight  or  sound  of  sol- 
diery, until  presently  she  saw  a  column  of  infantry 
coming  up  the  street,  so  silently  that  she  could  not 
hear  them  until  they  came  near  to  the  school-house. 
The  flags  were  flying  and  the  officers  on  horseback' 


'With  Confused  Noise."      345 

wheeled  and  turned  and  ran  hither  and  thither;  but 
there  was  no  music  of  brass  or  of  drum.  The  col- 
umn, loosely  formed  in  fours  and  not  trying  to  keep 
step,  came  on  swiftly.  The  men  carried  their  guns 
slanting  at  all  angles  over  their  shoulders,  and  they 
walked  at  high  speed  as  if  in  a  hurry  to  overtake  the 
horsemen. 

They  were  dressed  in  greyish  brown,  with  hats 
slouched  over  their  eyes  or  turned  up  upon  their 
foreheads.  Some  were  ragged,  some  wore  clothing 
that  had  shrunken  until  it  scantily  covered  the  legs 
and  the  body;  all  were  covered  with  grey  dust  and 
burned  brown  by  the  sun.  They  were  lean  and 
strong  and  resolute.  They  did  not  talk  among  them- 
selves, they  did  not  look  with  curiosity  upon  the 
town  or  at  the  thronged  windows;  they  were  obedi- 
ent to  the  force  of  a  stern  discipline  which  impelled 
them  headlong  upon  the  way  unknown  to  them. 
They  had  marched  far  in  that  hot  September  sun,  up 
from  the  South,  through  mountain  gaps  and  over 
wide  rivers  and  along  dusty  and  muddy  highways. 
They  were  toughened  warriors  with  fierce  strife  still 
before  them,  with  sudden  death  the  sure  fate  of 
many,  with  hardships  still  to  be  borne,  with  hunger 
and  thirst  and  fatigue  still  to  be  the  lot  of  the  survi- 
vors. Few  of  them  w-ere  in  the  mood  for  laughter, 
few  cared  for  the  smiles  of  the  women  who  loved 
their  cause  or  the  tears  and  the  frowns  of  those  who 
wished  for  victory  for  their  enemies.  To  go  onward : 
that  was  what  they  had  to  do,  and  they  did  it,  not 
with  sullenness,  not  with  regret  that  they  had 
become  soldiers,  not  with  pangs  caused  by  memories 


346  The  Quakeress. 

of  home,  but  with  intense,  unremitting,  persistent 
earnestness  as  men  who  had  learned  to  suffer  and  to 
be  patient  in  the  performance  of  their  task. 

Abby  watched  them  with  eager  curiosity  as  they 
hurried  by,  rank  after  rank,  regiment  after  regiment, 
division  after  division.  These  were  the  men  whose 
valorous  deeds  had  made  the  whole  world  ring  with 
applause.  These  were  the  men  who  had  won  victory 
in  those  mighty  battles  in  the  South  of  which  she 
had  heard  so  much.  It  was  these  men  and  such  as 
these  that  had  stood  steadfast  in  the  blazing  fury  of 
the  firing  line,  who  had  stormed  and  carried 
entrenchments,  who  had  thrust  back  the  brave  enemy 
that  charged  upon  them.  She  looked  at  them  and 
wondered.  It  was  terrible  to  her  that  men  should 
be  so  eager  to  kill,  so  ready  to  be  killed;  but  she 
could  not  help  feeling  a  glow  of  admiration  that  they 
should  be  so  brave;  and  then  to  her  peaceful  little 
soul,  so  timid  and  so  bred  to  quietness,  there  came 
for  the  first  time  some  comprehension  of  what  men 
mean  when  they  talk  of  the  glory  of  war.  Horrible 
the  strife  is,  but  was  there  not  indeed  something  to 
stir  the  blood  and  kindle  the  imagination  in  the  sight 
of  such  an  instrument  of  war — a  human  instrument 
— having  a  single  purpose  and  wielded  by  a  single 
man  for  the  achievement  of  that  purpose? 

Abby  tried  to  look  at  the  face  of  each  man  that 
passed  her,  but  she  found  she  could  not  do  that,  the 
troops  went  by  so  rapidly.  Then  she  remembered 
that  Clayton  was  an  officer  and  she  began  to  watch 
for  the  men  who  wore  the  tokens  of  rank.  Hour 
after  hour  she  sat  there,  and  hour  after  hour  the 


'  With  Confused  Noise/'      347 

troops  rushed  by,  a  multitude  of  almost  inconceiv- 
able greatness;  and  still  she  could  not  see  the  man 
for  whom  she  looked.  She  was  growing  weary  of 
watching.  Perhaps  he  did  not  belong  to  this  part 
of  the  army.  Perhaps  he  had  fallen  sick  and  had 
been  left  behind.  Possibly  the  soldiers  with  whom 
he  was  had  gone  past  the  town  by  another  road. 
She  could  not  have  missed  him,  she  thought,  for  he 
knew  where  she  would  be,  at  the  school-house,  and 
she  was  sure  that  if  he  should  go  by  there  would  be 
some  greeting  for  her.  She  had  almost  resolved  to 
shut  the  school-house  door  and  to  go  home  when 
the  great  guns  began  to  roll  past,  each  with  its  train 
of  horses,  each  followed  by  the  caisson,  with  the  sol- 
diers sitting  upon  the  boxes,  with  the  mounted  driv- 
ers cracking  their  whips  and  the  officers  riding  hard 
by.  She  could  not  resist  looking  at  the  cannon. 
They  seemed  terrible.  How  could  men  stand  up 
before  them  when  the  flames  poured  from  the  iron 
mouths?  Perhaps  she  should  hear  them  roar  if  it 
were  true  that  the  Federal  army  lay  just  beyond  the 
town  waiting  for  its  enemy. 

Then,  when  the  guns  were  gone,  the  foot  soldiers 
came  again,  and  while  she  looked  at  them  a  man  darted 
from  the  ranks,  dashed  into  the  door  of  the  school- 
house,  and  before  she  could  see  his  face,  his  arms 
were  about  her. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  "My  dearest  love,  my  Abby. 
You  will  give  me  one  kiss,  my  Abby,  just  one,"  and 
he  held  her  close  and  kissed  her,  and  then,  though 
she  had  not  had  time  or  breath  to  say  one  word  to 
him,  he  leaped  from  the  doorway  and  was  gone. 


348  Tke  Quakeress. 

She  went  to  the  window  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
him.  She  saw  him  run  to  his  place  in  the  moving 
column  and  he  turned  and  waved-  his  sword  at  her. 
Then  he  vanished. 

She  closed  the  door  and  sat  down  upon  a  chair. 
She  cared  no  more  for  the  soldiers  who  still  swept 
past.  She  felt  the  hot  kisses  upon  her  cheek  and 
her  lips;  upon  her  sleeve  she  saw  some  of  the  dust 
that  had  been  upon  the  arm  of  his  blouse.  She  would 
let  it  stay  there.  She  wanted  to  think  of  him  and 
his  caress  before  her  heart  stopped  beating  so  fast 
and  the  flush  upon  her  face  became  cool  again. 

Until  the  noon  hour  came,  Abby  sat  alone  in  the 
school-room,  with  the  door  locked,  thinking  of  Clay- 
ton, of  the  peril  in  which  he  would  be  in  the  great 
battle  she  feared  was  impending  and  of  her  hope  for 
him  that  mingled  so  strangely  with  her  hope  for  the 
success  of  his  opponents.  She  dreamed  of  the  hap- 
piness that  would  come  to  her  if  the  Confederate 
army  should  be  driven  back  after  Clayton  had  been 
made  a  prisoner,  for  then  he  would  be  in  safety, 
perhaps  safe  until  the  war  was  ended,  and  perchance 
she  might  visit  him  in  his  captivity  and  in  some  fssh- 
ion  minister  to  him.  Another  dream  she  had;  she 
shuddered  at  it,  but  there  was  a  gleam  of  joy  in  it: 
if  Clayton  should  be  slightly  wounded  and  they 
should  bear  him  to  the  village,  then  she  might  wait 
on  him  and  nurse  him  and  day  by  day,  as  he  should 
grow  stronger  with  tender  care,  he  would  love  her 
more  and  more  dearly.  She  had  read  of  such  things 
in  books  and  newspapers  and  the  experience  might 
be  hers;  but  she  could  hardly  bear  tb  think  of  his 
being  hurt. 


'With  Confused  Noise."      349 

At  last  she  rose  up  and  left  the  school  to  thread 
her  way  home  among  the  Confederate  stragglers 
that  thronged  the  street.  She  could  not  taste  her 
dinner.  She  could  not  listen  to  the  talk  she  was  sure 
to  hear  against  the  invaders.  She  went  to  her  room, 
and  after  a  while  Mrs.  Clegg  came  knocking  at  her 
door  and  together  they  climbed  the  narrow  ladder 
to  the  platform  on  the  roof  of  the  house.  There  they 
looked  out  to  the  North  and  East.  Near  to  them, 
on  the  rising  ground  to  the  westward  of  Antietam 
Creek,  they  could  easily  see  the  thin  grey  line  of  the 
Confederates  stretching  itself  in  front  of  the  town. 
Men  moved  hither  and  thither  and  horses  galloped 
to  put  the  guns  in  position.  With  the  glass  they 
could  perceive,  beyond  the  ravine  in  which  ran  the 
stream,  long  lines  of  men  in  blue,  a  mighty  host,  and 
here,  too,  there  was  the  movement  of  preparation. 

"There  will  be  an  awful  battle,  Abby  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Clegg.  "That  is  McClellan's  army  and  here 
is  Lee's.  We  shall  be  in  the  very  thick  of  it." 

And  Abby,  silent,  looked  and  looked,  not  long  at 
the  lines  of  blue,  but  at  the  grey  line,  and  she  won- 
dered where  in  all  that  swarm  of  men  was  the  man 
who  kissed  her  cheek  in  the  morning. 

Her  companion  went  down  in  the  house,  but  she 
remained  almost  until  dusk  looking  and  hoping  and 
ofttime  praying  for  the  one  being  in  the  host  whose 
life  was  to  her  supremely  precious. 

It  was  a  restless  perturbed  night  for  all  the  people 
of  the  village,  and  when  the  morning  broke  the 
streets  were  thronged  with  Confederate  soldiers  and 
with  all  the  back-lash  of  the  army.  Bodies  of  troops 


The  Quakeress. 


marched  through,  orderlies  galloped  furiously  from 
point  to  point.  Ammunition  wagons,  baggage  wag- 
ons, ambulances  and  all  the  necessary  paraphernalia 
for  the  sustenance  and  safety  of  an  army  thronged 
the  streets,  and  mingling  with  the  visitors  were  citi- 
zens of  the  town  and  farmers  who  had  flocked  into 
the  town,  some  impelled  by  curiosity,  some  seeking 
for  safety  and  some  full  of  joy  that  the  champions  of 
the  Southern  cause  had  come  into  Maryland. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  have  school,  and 
Abby  spent  the  day  trying  to  read,  trying  to  sleep, 
but  always  with  her  mind  upon  her  soldier,  who 
stood  just  out  of  her  reach  upon  the  verge  of  the 
stream  that  ran  close  by  the  town. 

At  supper  time  the  news  came  that  the  great  Con- 
federate leader  was  at  hand  and  had  made  his  head- 
quarters at  the  edge  of  the  village.  They  knew  then 
that  the  battle  would  not  be  long  delayed. 

There  was  little  rest  on  that  night  also,  for  the 
street  was  full  of  movement  and  the  air  of  cries;  and 
for  each  citizen  there  was  the  strain  of  waiting  for 
a  great  catastrophe  which  would  surely  swallow  up 
the  lives  of  thousands  of  men  and  which  might  play 
havoc  with  the  homes  of  peaceful  people. 

Abby,  sleeping  for  a  little  while,  lay  wide  awake 
in  her  room  after  midnight  and  the  hours  passed 
slowly  until  three  o'clock  came.  Then,  with  terror 
in  her  soul  she  heard  the  roar  of  cannon,  soon  fol- 
lowed by  the  rattle  and  crash  of  musketry,  and  she 
knew  that  the  struggle  had  begun. 

She  arose  and  without  lighting  her  lamp,  dressed 
herself,  while  the  boom  of  the  cannon  became  more 


'With  Confused  Noise."      351 

vehement.  It  was  the  most  frightful  sound  she  had 
ever  heard,  and  it  constantly  gained  in  fury.  As  she 
listened,  trembling,  her  mind  involuntarily  wandered 
off  to  the  old  meeting-house  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  at  Plymouth  and  to  the  sweet  peace  of  the 
gatherings  there  for  worship.  She  thought  of 
George  and  of  her  mother,  and  of  the  hours  of  silent 
prayer.  She  thought  of  that  quiet  meeting  for  wor- 
ship long  ago  with  George  in  her  garden  in  the  calm 
June  morning  amid  the  smell  of  the  roses,  and  she 
wished  she  were  there  now,  at  home,  with  Friends 
and  at  peace. 

The  tears  came  upon  her  cheeks.  She  looked  from 
the  window  upon  the  black  night  and  there,  out  by 
the  creek,  the  landscape  was  lighted  by  the  flashes 
from  the  roaring  cannon  and  she  even  heard  the  yells 
of  the  infuriated  combatants  as  they  met  their  ene- 
mies.. The  sight  was  too  terrible.  It  was  a  glimpse 
of  hell,  and  so  she  turned  and  falling  into  a  chair  she 
placed  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  sought  God  in 
prayer. 

She  could  not  at  such  a  time  have  that  tranquillity 
of  spirit  with  which  Friends  were  used  to  enter  con- 
sciously the  Divine  presence.  Her  heart  was  filled 
with  terror  and  with  dread  foreboding  for  the  man 
she  loved;  and  indeed  who  could  have  maintained 
spiritual  calm  while  that  wild  tempest  of  war  raged 
within  her  hearing?  Half  hysterically,  in  ejaculatory 
phrases,  she  prayed  for  Clayton;  she  prayed  that  the 
battle-storm  might  quickly  cease;  that  God  might 
bring  solace  to  the  hearts  that  would  be  wrung  with 
anguish  because  of  the  slaughter  upon  that  field  of 


352 


The  Quakeress. 


war;  that  He  would  save  her  country  and  bring  to  it 
peace  again.  And  then  for  herself  she  besought  for- 
giveness. She  prayed  that  those  whom  she  loved 
might  forgive  her  as  God  would  forgive  her;  and  then 
she  wept  again;  and  still  the  thunder  of  the  guns  grew 
louder  and  the  rattle  of  the  volleying  muskets  mingled 
with  the  cries  of  the  furious  soldiery. 

When  she  dropped  her  hands,  exhausted  of  her 
capacity  for  prayer,  the  dawn  had  come  and  she  went 
to  the  window.  New  bodies  of  soldiers  poured  along 
the  street  that  they  might  plunge  into  the  combat 
that  lay  beyond ;  but  there  was  a  contrary  current,  for 
now  men  thronged  in  from  the  battlefield  carrying 
wounded  soldiers  upon  stretchers  and  in  ambulances, 
and  other  combatants,  sorely  hurt  but  not  yet  help- 
less, marched  beside  them  covered  with  blood  and 
staggering  onward,  sometimes  to  tumble  upon  the 
pavements,  sometimes  to  seek  shelter  where  they 
might  dress  their  hurts. 

And  so  the  day  began.  So  its  long  hours  contin- 
ued. She  went  out  sometimes  to  help  where  a  woman 
could  give  help  and  blessing,  and  into  the  faces  of 
wounded  men  she  looked  all  through  the  day  fearing 
that  she  might  see  the  face  of  the  one  she  knew;  but 
often  the  scene  became  too  terrible  to  be  borne,  and 
then  she  would  fly  for  refuge  and  respite  to  her  room 
and  to  prayer. 

Midday  came  and  passed,  the  long  afternoon  lapsed 
into  evening  and  the  shadows  began  to  fall,  but  still, 
almost  without  intermission,  the  thunder  of  the  artil- 
lery rolled  back  into  the  town  and  the  sounds  of  the 
conflict  told  of  insatiable  fury.  Abby  went  early  to 


'With  Confused  Noise.        353 

her  chamber  and  remained  there,  the  window  open 
and  the  horror  of  the  maimed  and  the  dying  still  in 
the  street  below  her.  Before  long,  weary  of  the 
excitement  and  the  misery,  she  fell  asleep  in  her  chair. 
She  awakened  suddenly  in  the  darkness,  and  found 
that  silence  had  come.  A  single  shot  was  heard  now 
and  then,  far  away,  but  all  the  mighty  tumult  of  the 
battle  at  last  was  stilled. 

Making  a  light,  she  found  that  half-past  nine  was 
the  hour.  After  eighteen  hours  the  conflict  was 
ended — the  most  sanguinary  day  of  all  the  dreadful 
days  of  the  civil  war. 

She  did  not  know  who  had  the  victory.  She  was 
so  weary  in  soul  and  body  that  she  could  hardly  rouse 
herself  to  care  or  to  inquire;  and  so  she  went  to  bed 
and  once  more  to  sleep. 

When  the  morning  came  she  learned  that  the  two 
armies  still  lay  along  their  lines  outside  the  town,  and 
that  at  any  moment  the  strife  might  be  renewed.  But 
it  was  not.  There  was  something  like  satiety  upon 
both  sides,  and  exhaustion.  Thus  during  the  whole 
day  a  kind  of  truce  prevailed,  while  living  soldiers 
sought  out  and  buried  the  dead  ones  or  carried  the 
wounded  away  to  places  of  safety.  So  night  returned 
once  more  and  when  Abby  had  fallen  asleep  she  was 
aroused  by  a  great  movement  in  the  street.  She  arose 
and  went  to  the  window,  and  there  in  the  darkness 
she  could  perceive  a  mighty  shadowy  host,  men  on 
foot,  men  on  horses,  horses  dragging  cannon  and 
wagons  following,  rushing  swiftly  away  from  the  bat- 
tlefield and  towards  the  Potomac  river. 

She  knew  at  once  what  it  meant;  the  Confederate 


354  The  Quakeress. 

army  was  retreating;  the  battle  was  ended  completely; 
there  was  some  sort  of  victory  for  the  cause  that  had 
her  devotion.  She  was  glad  for  that,  but  she  won- 
dered where  Clayton  was.  He  might  pass  her  win- 
dow while  she  looked  down  upon  the  moving  throng 
and  she  would  not  know  it ;  he  might  be  wounded  and 
helpless  on  that  awful  field  of  strife  or  he  might  be 
dead. 

She  looked  and  looked  in  vain  upon  his  comrades, 
for  there  could  be  no  sight  of  him  in  the  gloom,  and 
then,  long  ere  the  soldiers  had  ceased  to  go  by,  she 
went  back  to  rest  determined  that  she  would  try  upon 
the  morrow  to  know  his  fate. 

In  the  morning  Abby  put  on  her  straight  little  grey 
bonnet,  and  folded  her  grey  silk  handkerchief  upon 
her  breast.  Then  summoning  Mrs.  Clegg's  negro 
servant  Joseph  to  accompany  her,  for  she  had  dread 
to  go  alone  on  this  errand,  she  went  down  the  street 
towards  the  battlefield. 

Wounded  men  were  still  being  carried  into  the 
town  and  the  Federal  cavalry  were  moving  forward 
in  small  bodies  to  discover  the  track  of  the  retreating 
army. 

Abby  and  her  companion  had  not  gone  far  along 
the  road  before  they  came  upon  evidences  of  the  bat- 
tle. Twenty  thousand  men  had  been  killed  and 
wounded  in  the  contest,  and  the  burial  parties  at 
work  in  every  part  of  the  field  had  not  had  time 
enough  half  to  complete  their  work.  The  wounded 
were  lying  here  and  there  often  in  groups,  and  men 
were  busy  among  them,  caring  for  them  and  prepar- 
ing for  their  removal;  but  the  number  was  so  great 


'With  Confused  Noise/'      355 

that  some  must  wait  and  suffer  and  die  before  their 
turn  should  come. 

The  fences  were  down,  the  cornfields  were  tram- 
pled into  black  mud,  the  trees  were  torn  and  dismem- 
bered by  the  artillery  firing,  and  everywhere  to  right 
and  to  left  the  slain  and  the  hurt,  in  blue  and  grey, 
were  seen  upon  the  ground. 

The  horror  of  it  all  came  home  to  Abby's  mind 
with  new  force  as  she  witnessed  this  misery  and 
destruction,  and  she  felt  strong  thankfulness  that  she 
belonged  to  a  body  of  Christ's  people  who,  through 
all  the  wild  strife  of  the  centuries,  had  never  faltered 
in  bearing  their  testimony  against  this  wickedness. 
She  had  to  shut  her  heart  against  sympathy  for  indi- 
viduals as  she  passed  them  by,  for  what  could  she  do 
to  help  them?  and  she  felt  that  if  for  a  moment  she 
should  permit  her  feelings  to  get  control  of  her  she 
should  be  unable  to  stand. 

She  and  the  negro  looked  sharply  for  the  fallen 
officers  who  should  be  dressed  in  Confederate  uniforms. 
Some  they  saw  and  glancing  at  their  faces  passed 
them  by.  Over  the  fields  they  went  until  they  came 
to  a  wrood  bordering  the  creek.  Here  there  had  been 
fierce  fighting;  here  the  trees  were  scarred  and  torn 
and  here  the  blue  and  the  grey  lay  in  heaps  together. 
But  the  girl  saw  no  face  that  she  knew. 

Turning  to  the  right,  she  and  her  companion  clam- 
bered over  a  low  wall  into  the  road,  and  then  making 
their  way  up  a  bank  upon  the  other  side  of  the  high- 
way they  surmounted  another  wall,  coming  upon  a 
trampled  wheat  field  where  also  there  had  been  fright- 
ful combat.  Thence  among  the  dying  and  the  dead 


The  Quakeress. 


they  went  on  into  another  field  close  by  a  little  wood 
and  here,  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  Abby  stopped 
and  rested  upon  a  great  stone.  The  sun  was  hot  and 
she  was  tired  of  body  and  sick  of  soul;  and  she  was 
discouraged.  She  could  not  hope  to  look  at  all  that 
great  host  of  the  victims  of  the  fray,  and  if  she  should 
do  so  he  might  have  been  carried  away  or  he  might 
be  marching  unhurt  to  the  Southward.  She  was 
almost  inclined  to  go  back  and  to  give  up  the  search; 
but  while  she  sat,  Joseph  went  beyond  and  looked 
in  the  wood  and  in  the  adjoining  field. 

Presently  he  stopped  and  summoned  her.  Her 
heart  almost  ceased  beating;  but  quickly  she  remem- 
bered that  the  man  had  not  known  Clayton.  He  had 
found  another  Confederate  officer,  that  was  all.  She 
arose  and  went  to  him.  He  stood  beyond  a  stone 
wall  over  which  she  climbed,  and  there,  in  a  corner, 
was  a  Confederate  soldier,  dead. 

It  was  Clayton.  He  lay  supine,  with  his  left  arm 
bent  above  his  head,  his  sword  in  his  other  hand,  his 
face  of  the  color  of  ashes  and  a  great  wound  over  his 
heart. 

She  knew  him  instantly.  She  did  not  cry.  She 
knelt  quickly  beside  him  saying  : 

"It  is  he,  Joseph.  It  is  Mr.  Harley.  Go  and  get 
some  water  from  the  creek,  Joseph." 

The  negro  left  her.  She  put  her  hand  upon  the 
white  cheek;  it  was  cold.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers; 
it  felt  like  marble.  She  knelt  beside  him  upon  the 
ground,  and  brushed  the  dark  hair  tenderly  away  from 
his  forehead.  Then  she  looked  around,  and  seeing 
no  one  near,  she  kissed  him  again  and  again,  speaking 


'With  Confused  Noise.        357 

passionate  words  under  her  breath  to  him  as  if  she 
could  not  trust  herself  to  open  utterance.  She  was 
holding  his  hand  when  Joseph  returned  with  water  in 
the  crown  of  his  felt  hat. 

"It  is  too  late,  Joseph,"  she  said  gently,  but  she 
dipped  her  handkerchief  in  the  water  and  wiped  away 
the  grime  and  the  blood  upon  his  face,  and  tried  to 
take  it  from  the  breast  of  his  blouse  where  the  shell 
had  struck  him. 

"Do  not  cry,  Joseph,"  she  said.  "Go  back  to  town 
and  find  some  one  to  help  us  bring  him  home.  We 
must  bring  him  home  again,  Joseph.  We  must  not 
let  the  soldiers  bury  him  here.  His  mother  will  want 
to  see  him.  Go  now,  and  I  will  wait  here  for  you." 

The  negro  left  her  and  went  swiftly  toward  the 
village. 

She  sat  close  beside  the  dead  man,  and  lifted  his 
head  upon  her  lap.  They  were  beyond  the  reach  or 
knowledge  of  the  soldiers  that  were  searching  the 
field.  They  were  under  the  screen  of  the  wall,  close 
to  the  great  trees  that  rustled  in  the  autumn  breeze. 
Alone  with  him  she  looked  at  the  face  of  her  lover. 
There  were  no  tears.  She  wondered  that  she  did  not 
weep.  Her  mind  ran  back  over  the  years  and  while 
she  thought  and  thought  minutely  of  each  of  the 
times  when  she  had  been  with  him,  of  his  words  of 
tenderness,  of  his  kisses,  of  the  clasping  of  his  arms, 
and  of  all  his  gaiety  and  loveliness,  she  talked  to  him 
in  half  articulate  cooings  as  a  mother  to  a  sleeping 
babe,  and  kissed  his  hand  and  his  face. 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  thought  of  the  night  when, 
upon  the  porch  of  the  parsonage  in  Connock,  she  first 


as8  The  Quakeress. 

heard  him  sing,  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  became 
audible  to  her  memory.  She  leaned  far  over  him, 
taking  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and,  almost  touching 
his  face,  she  began  to  sing  and  she  sang  bravely  to 
the  end  the  old  song : 

"  O  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  below? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once  and  grieved  thee  sore, 

I  remember  all  that  I  said. 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  no  more,  no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead." 

Her  voice  quavered  upon  the  last  line  and  as  she. 
ended  it  the  tension  that  held  her  relaxed,  and  she 
fell  into  a  passion  of  weeping,  kissing  him  and  mur- 
muring to  him  amid  her  sobs,  and  so  she  sat  until 
she  heard  the  step  of  Joseph,  who  had  come  back 
again. 

The  man  had  a  companion,  and  both  looked  at  her 
with  pity  in  their  faces,  as  she  lifted  herself  from  the 
earth.  Joseph,  at  her  command,  searched  the  dead 
man's  clothing,  that  she  might  retain  for  his  mother 
anything  that  would  be  worth  retaining,  and  among 
the  articles  the  negro  handed  to  her  two  letters  and 
a  locket. 

"It  might  be  mine,"  she  said,  as  she  put  it  with  the 
letters  into  her  pocket,  with  a  button  loosed  from  the 
blouse  that  he  wore. 

Then  the  two  men  bore  the  body  away  across 
the  field  to  the  road,  where  there  was  a  wagon, 
and  in  the  wagon  Abby  and  the  slain  soldier  and 


'With  Confused  Noise."      359 

Joseph  and  his  companion  went  back  slowly  toward 
Sharpsburg.  As  they  climbed  the  little  hill  that  ran 
upward  from  the  border  of  the  creek,  a  train  of  for- 
lorn gipsy  wagons  came  downward  to  pass  them,  and 
on  the  front  seat  of  the  first  wagon  Abby  saw,  and 
knew  at  once,  the  woman  who  had  read  her  palm 
and  pretended  to  tell  her  fortune  by  the  great  foun- 
tain at  Spring  Mill  long  ago.  Abby  looked  at  her 
with  amazement  and  sad  foreboding,  but  the  woman 
saw  her  not,  or  would  not  seem  to  see  her.  The  eyes 
of  the  gipsy  turned  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  as  her  vehicle  went  by  toward  the  Federal  lines. 

"She  said,"  murmured  Abby  to  herself,  "that  I 
should  die  of  a  broken  heart.  I  wonder  what  she 
said  to  Clayton!" 

Friend  Thomas  Clegg  sent  to  Mrs.  Harley  a  tele- 
gram telling  her  of  Clayton's  death,  and  then  he 
sent  the  body  home  to  her. 

When  Abby  came  to  the  house,  she  went  into  her 
chamber  and  locked  the  door. 

She  bethought  her  of  the  locket  and  the  letters 
and  the  button.  She  took  them  out  and  pressed  her 
lips  upon  them.  The  button  should  be  hers,  always. 
The  locket  she  did  not  know.  She  opened  it  and 
went  with  it  close  to  the  window.  There  was  the 
face  of  a  woman  within  it  and  the  face  smiled  upon 
Abby.  She  turned  to  the  letters.  She  would  not 
open  them.  There  was  a  chill  in  her  heart  and  she 
reeled  across  the  room  to  fall  upon  the  bed.  "Was 
ever  sorrow  like  my  sorrow?"  she  said,  as  she  lay 
there  and  thought  of  the  dead  man  and  her  love  for 
him.  That  love  was  mighty  enough,  she  found,  to 


36o  The  Quakeress. 

overbear  all  other  feeling  even  now.  She  had  never 
hated  anybody.  She  knew  not  how;  and  no  matter 
what  Clayton  had  concealed  from  her  she  did  believe 
he  truly  loved  her  as  she  would  always  truly  love 
him;  for  how  could  she  help  it?  Long  ago  all  power 
over  her  soul  in  that  respect  had  vanished.  Her  pas- 
sion mastered  her. 

When  evening  came  she  wrapped  the  letters  and 
the  locket  together,  and  Mrs.  Clegg  should  address 
them  to  his  mother. 

She  felt  so  weary  next  day  that  she  could  not  move 
to  gather  her  scholars,  and  indeed  the  fever  of  the 
battle  was  still  so  strong  upon  the  village  that  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  do  so.  As  she  thought  of 
it,  the  longing  for  home  came  upon  her  and  she  con- 
sidered if  she  should  not  give  up  the  school  to 
another  person  and  go  back  to  her  mother  and  that 
dear  grey  house  upon  the  hill.  She  spoke  of  it  at 
supper,  and  just  as  the  meal  was  ended  George  Foth- 
erly  came  to  the  door  and  asked  to  see  her. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could,  Abby,  after  we  heard 
that  the  battle  was  ended.  I  was  dread  for  thee  when 
I  knew  it  was  so  near  to  thee." 

"It  was  most  kind  of  thee,  George,"  she  said,  and 
then  he  talked  to  her  of  Connock  and  of  her  dear 
ones  there.  "Thee  is  sad,  Abby,"  he  said,  looking 
nearly  at  her.  "The  strain  has  been  too  great  for 
thee,  my  girl." 

"I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  cannon  always,  George. 
Take  me  home,  take  me  home !  I  cannot  bear  to 
stay  here  any  longer.  Will  they  think  I  have  left  my 
duty  if  I  go  ?" 


'  Witli  Confused  Noise. '      361 

"No,"  said  George,  "thee  must  come  with  me. 
We  will  go  in  the  morning.  Thy  mother  is  hungry 
for  thee,  and  I  long  for  thee,  too,  Abby.  Some  one 
will  take  thy  place  at  the  school." 

That  night  Abby  made  ready  for  the  journey,  and 
the  next  day  in  the  early  morning  she  left  the  house 
and  walked  alone  swiftly  out  to  the  place  where  the 
corner  of  the  stone  wall  lay  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wood  and  there,  stooping,  she  kissed  the  ground 
that  bore  still  the  impress  of  the  slain  soldier's  form. 
Hurrying  back  to  the  town,  she  found  George  wait- 
ing for  her;  and  with  him  she  went  upon  the  train  to 
the  northward,  up  among  the  hills,  and  while  the 
night  was  early  her  mother's  arms  were  about  her. 

"I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  weeping,"  said  George 
to  her  as  he  bade  farewell.  "Thee  is  overwrought 
and  weary.  I  will  come  to-morrow  to  see  thee,  and 
I  am  sure  thee  will  have  a  smile  for  me,  my  dear." 

But  Abby  felt  that  for  her  the  joy  of  life  was  gone 
forever. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
A  New  Master  for  trie  Grey  House. 

THE  first  impression  Abby  had  when  she  came 
home  was  of  her  mother's  declining  health  and 
strength.  The  work  of  the  summer,  involving  house- 
keeping for  several  exacting  boarders,  had  borne 
heavily  upon  her,  and  as  Abby  clasped  her  thin  hand 
and  looked  into  her  pallid  face,  the  girl  was  full  of 
regret  that  she  had  gone  away  instead  of  remaining  to 
share  the  burden  with  Rachel.  The  sum  total  of  the 
achievement  of  both  women  was  the  accumulation 
of  money  enough  to  continue  for  a  few  months  the 
maintenance  of  the  home  to  which  they  were  fondly 
attached.  It  was  however  clear  to  Abby  that  she 
must  hereafter  stay  with  her  mother  and  that  upon 
the  younger  woman  would  devolve  the  task  of  earn- 
ing a  livelihood  for  the  two.  But  indeed  Abby  could 
not  conceal  from  herself  the  promise  that  unless  a 
great  change  for  the  better  should  speedily  be  made 
in  her  mother's  health,  the  time  was  not  far  distant 
when  the  daughter  would  find  herself  alone  in  the 
grey  house  and  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  care  for 
but  herself. 

Abby  had  not  been  in  Connock  many  hours  when 
she  found  herself  impelled  to  visit  Mrs.  Ponder,  and 
so,  before  that  good  woman  had  time  to  come  to  her, 
Abby  slipped  over  to  the  parsonage  and  had  from 
the  minister's  wife  greeting  hardly  less  fervent  than 
that  given  her  by  Rachel  Woolford. 

(362) 


A  New  Master.  363 

"It  is  so  delightful,  my  dear,  to  have  you  at  home 
again,"  said  'Mrs.  Ponder,  when  she  had  kissed  and 
hugged  Abby  and  when  both  of  them  were  seated  in 
the  livmg  room.  "Your  mother  needs  your  help  and 
your  affection  a  good  deal  more,  in  my  opinion,  than 
the  little  darkies  need  your  instruction.  She  is  not 
really  strong  and  well  since  father  died.  You  have 
noticed  that,  Abby?" 

"Yes." 

"And  while  I  make  a  point  of  never  meddling  with 
other  people's  business,  it  is  perfectly  clear  to  me,  if 
you  will  let  me  say  so  because  I  love  you  both,  that 
your  place  is  by  her  side,  even  if  the -frowzy  and  frum- 
pled  and  forlorn  children  of  Ethiopia  never  learn  a 
letter  of  the  alphabet  or  find  out  that  two  and  two 
make  four." 

"So  I  am  right  glad  you  will  be  here  where  you 
can  comfort  that  lonely  mother  and  where  I  can  see 
you  sometimes  and  you  can  be  out  of  danger.  It 
must  have  been  perfectly  awful,  my  dear,  wasn't  it, 
to  find  yourself  in  the  very  swirl  of  that  fearful  bat- 
tle? Weren't  you  scared  very  nearly  to  death?  I 
am  absolutely  certain  that  I  should  be  completely 
unnerved  by  the  sound  of  one  cannon,  because  I  could 
never  stand  the  explosion  of  a  firecracker;  and  what 
you  endured  with  all  that  deafening  crash  of  cannons 
and  muskets  almost  in  your  very  ears  can  hardly  be 
conceived  by  me.  I  never  expected  to  see  you  alive 
and  with  us  again." 

"And  how  very,  very  strange  it  was,  Abby  dear," 
continued  Mrs.  Ponder,  becoming  suddenly  grave 
and  tearful,  "that  that  poor  dear  boy  of  ours  should 


364  The  Quakeress. 

have  been  in  the  very  midst  of  the  terrible  conflict, 
near  to  you,  almost  within  the  sound  of  your  voice, 
and  you  did  not  know  it!  Suppose  he  had  suspected 
you  were  in  the  town,  do  you  think  he  would  have 
sought  you  out  before  the  battle  began?  I  am  sure 
of  it.  He  always  seemed  to  like  you  very,  very  much 
when  he  was  here,  and  at  one  time,  indeed,  Abby,  I 
had  some  hopes  that — " 

Abby  was  weeping  and  Mrs.  Ponder  restrained  her 
tongue  before  the  sentence  was  finished. 

"I  know,"  she  continued,  "that  his  mother's  heart 
is  broken;  bereft  as  she  is  of  her  children." 

Then  Mrs.  Ponder  joined  her  tears  with  Abby's. 

"But  I  will  say  it  of  Clayton,  even  if  he  was  fight- 
ing on  the  wrong  side,  that  he  was  conscientious 
about  it.  He  followed  his  deep  convictions  and  I 
have  no  doubt  at  all  that,  if  the  whole  truth  were 
known,  it  would  be  found  that  he  died  the  death  of  a 
hero,  facing  the  foe  with  undaunted  courage  and  per- 
haps compelling  many  a  one  upon  the  other  side  to  bite 
the  dust." 

"That  is  some  consolation,  of  course,  to  his 
mother,  but  not  much,  for  to  lose  him  is  a  frightful 
affliction.  Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  inclined  to 
regret  that  Dr.  Ponder  and  I  have  no  children,  I 
have  tried  to  find  comfort  in  the  reflection  that 
maybe  if  children  had  come  to  us  they  might  have 
turned  out  badly,  or  gone  off  from  the  Church  and 
joined  some  of  the  deuominations  that  are  around  us, 
or  at  any  rate  have  died  and  filled  us  with  lamenta- 
tion; and  so  I  have  persuaded  myself  that  perhaps 
all  is  for  the  best;  excepting,  O,  my  darling  Abby! 


A  New  Master.  365 

every  now  and  then  I  dream  that  I  have  a  lovely  lit- 
tle child  of  my  own  cuddling  in  my  lap  and  looking 
into  my  face  and  laughing  with  me,  and  he  always 
has  curly  golden  hair  and  the  sweetest  blue  eyes,  and 
when  I  see  him  and  hug  him  and  find  his  fat  little 
hand  patting  my  cheek,  I  am  so  happy  that  to  wake 
up  is  to  be  miserable.  Do  you  suppose  I  shall  ever 
see  such  a  child  in  Heaven?" 

Mrs.  Ponder  stopped  for  a  good  hard  cry.  Then, 
regaining  her  composure  and  wiping  her  eyes,  she 
went  on : 

"For  my  part,  dear  Abby,  I  am  tired  of  this  horrid 
war,  which  is  destroying  our  bravest  and  best  and 
really  getting  more  and  more  hopeless.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  such  amazing  imbecility  upon  the  part 
of  men  who  pretend  to  be  generals?  Most  of  them 
are  not  fit  to  command  a  squad  of  the  Connock 
Home  Guards,  and  goodness  knows  that  does  not  call 
for  every  eminent  military  gifts." 

"I  am  firmly  convinced  that  some  kind  of  a  new 
experiment  must  be  tried  unless  the  Union  is  to  be 
permitted  to  go  to  pieces  and  all  shall  be  lost  and 
our  country  reduced  to  a  mere  wreck  of  a  once 
mighty  republic.  Over  and  over  again  I  have  urged 
Dr.  Ponder  to  go  to  Washington  to  see  the  Presi- 
dent, or  to  write  in  firm  language  to  him,  to  insist 
that  the  direction  of  the  whole  campaign  against 
the  Southerners  shall  be  placed  finally  in  the  control 
of  the  clergy.  You  know  what  I  mean :  the  clergy 
of  the  Church;  the  Apostolic  clergy.  These  men  are 
divinely  inspired;  they  are  clothed  with  more  than 
human  authority,  and  they  are  to  a  man  ready  to 
consecrate  themselves  to  such  a  service  as  this." 


366  The  Quakeress. 

"If  I  had  my  way,  I  would  proclaim  an  armistice, 
or  something  of  that  kind;  I  think  that  is  the  right 
name;  anyhow,  a  truce,  you  might  call  it,  so  that 
there  should  be  no  more  firing  guns  and  killing  one 
another  for  a  specified  time.  Then  I  would  send  Dr. 
Ponder  down  to  Virginia  and  have  him  expostulate 
with  Jefferson  Davis  and  General  Lee,  and  explain 
fully  to  them,  so  that  they  could  no  longer  plead  ina- 
bility to  see  the  truth  clearly  just  in  what  particulars 
their  conduct  is  scandalous  and  indefensible  and, 
using  his  authority  as  a  member  of  the  Apostolic 
ministry,  have  him  command  them  to  stop  and  to 
lay  down  their  arms  and  to  let  things  alone." 

"But  Dr.  Po'nder  is  afraid  the  government  at 
Washington  will  not  listen  to  him  if  he  should  offer 
to  perform  this  patriotic  service,  and  so  he  contents 
himself  by  acting  as  chaplain  to  this  ridiculous  Con- 
nock  Home  Guard  which  will  never  even  snap  a  cap 
at  the  enemy;  though  why  the  government  at  Wash- 
ington should  dare  to  refuse  to  heed  the  warnings 
and  remonstrances  of  a  man  who  speaks  with  Apos- 
tolical power  is  completely  beyond  my  comprehension." 

"And  now,  Abby  dear,  somehow  or  other  you  have 
let  me  do  all  the  talking,  while  in  fact  the  one  thing 
I  wanted  to  see  you  for  was  to  hear  about  your  expe- 
rience as  a  school-teacher,  and  about  the  battle  that 
raged  all  around  you  on  that  dreadful  day.  So 
George  Fotherly  brought  you  home,  did  he?  He  is 
a  fine  man,  and  I  know  he  thinks  much  of  you.  O ! 
if  only  he  would  come  under  Dr.  Ponder's  influence 
and  would — .  But  I  must  not  trouble  you  with  that. 
Please  tell  me  about  your  life  in  Sharpsburg." 


A  New  Master.  367 

It  was  too  long  a  story  to  be  told  in  full  upon  this 
visit,  and  so,  when  Abby  had  spoken  briefly,  she  bade 
Mrs.  Ponder  farewell,  promising  to  come  again  and 
to  talk  with  both  Mrs.  Ponder  and  the  doctor  about 
her  Maryland  experiences. 

With  Abby  at  home  to  direct  the  affairs  of  the 
household,  Rachel  relaxed  the  strain  that  had  been 
upon  her  and  at  once  the  swift  decline  of  her  strength 
showed  that  the  demand  upon  her  powers  made  by 
the  duties  of  the  summer  had  been  much  too  severe 
for  her.  Rachel's  sister  remained  in  the  house  and 
to  her  Abby  turned  over  the  management  of  affairs, 
while  the  girl  addressed  herself  almost  wholly  to  the 
task,  daily  growing  more  arduous,  of  ministering  to 
her  mother. 

Sometimes  the  thought  came  to  Abby  that  Rachel 
might  not  live,  and  it  came  like  a  blow.  That  catas- 
trophe seemed  to  Abby  so  desperate  and  so  bewilder- 
ing that  she  could  not  bear  to  contemplate  it,  but  her 
clear  good  sense  permitted  her  to  make  some  fair 
estimate  of  the  probabilities,  and  she  could  not  long 
delude  herself  with  any  strong  measure  of  hopeful- 
ness. What  would  happen  to  her  then — what  the 
world  would  be  like  to  her  with  both  father  and 
mother  gone,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  consider. 
She  could  behold  in  that  event  simply  thick  darkness 
and  the  final  exclusion  of  hope  and  joy  from  her  soul. 

Rachel  had  no  illusions  about  her  own  condition. 
She  believed,  from  the  first  hour  of  helplessness,  that 
she  should  die  before  the  winter  came,  and  it  grieved 
her  to  think  of  the  fate  of  the  girl,  left  to  fight  all  by 
herself  the  dreadful  battle  of  life.  Down  deep  in  her 


368  The  Quakeress. 

heart  Rachel  tried  to  put  her  trust  in  the  Divine 
Helper  who  cannot  forget  the  widow  or  the  orphan, 
and  her  longing  desire  and  expectation  were  that 
Omnipotence  in  this  case  would  employ  as  his 
instrument  George  Fotherly,  making  him  the  husband 
and  the  protector  of  the  motherless  girl.  But  she 
had  misgivings,  for  clearly  enough  George's  suit  with 
Abby  had  not  prospered  as  she  hoped  it  would. 

Before  October  was  past  Rachel  said  plainly  to 
Abby  that  her  end  was  near  and  she  talked  with  her 
about  her  future. 

"I  feel,  dear  child,  as  if  I  were  unkind  to  thee  to  go 
away  from  thee  when  father  has  gone.  It  seems 
sometimes  that  I  deserve  reproach  for  deserting  thee, 
as  if  thee  were  a  helpless  little  girl  and  I  a  cruel 
mother.  But  I  know,  dear,  that  it  is  the  common 
way.  We  marry  and  have  children;  they  grow  to  be 
men  and  women  and  then  father  and  mother,  no 
longer  needed,  are  called,  I  hope  to  higher  things." 

"It  is  the  usual  way,  dear  mother,"  answered  Abby, 
weeping,  "but  it  is  not  less  hard  for  the  one  left  behind 
than  if  it  were  the  first  time  in  human  experience." 

"I  would  stay  with  thee  if  I  could,"  said  Rachel, 
"but  there  is  a  Divine  Hand  that  leads  us  and  it  is 
guided  by  better  wisdom  than  ours.  I  am  sore  to 
leave  thee,  but  I  am  willing  to  go  if  that  be  God's 
way;  and  then  I  will  not  hide  from  thee  that  my  soul 
is  filled  with  longing  to  be  with  father  once  again.  I 
believe  he  waits  for  me  and  wants  me." 

"And  I  will  come  some  day  to  be  with  both  of 
you,"  said  Abby.  "Life  will  have  nothing  for  me 
when  thee  is  gone." 


A  New  Master.  369 

"I  wish,  dear  child,  it  might  have  a  loving  husband 
for  thee.  Then  thee  would  be  neither  lonely  nor 
helpless,  and  if  I  knew  thee  would  soon  marry  such 
an  one,  I  should  have  more  peace  while  I  wait  for 
the  call." 

"It  seems  to  me,  mother,  I  shall  never  marry,"  an- 
swered Abby  with  downcast  eyes.  Rachel  had  heard 
from  Mrs.  Ponder  of  Clayton's  death.  She  would 
not  allude  to  it  in  speaking  with  Abby,  but  now  she 
said: 

"Thee  must  have  no  constraint  upon  thee  in  such 
a  solemn  business,  but  if  George  shall  seek  thy  hand 
I  beg  of  thee  to  search  thy  heart  deeply  that  thee 
may  find  if  thee  cannot  love  him.  No  woman  could 
have  a  better  husband  than  he  would  be  to  thee." 

"I  will  try  to  do  right,  mother,"  responded  the 
girl;  but  she  found  in  her  soul  no  true  response  to 
the  appeal  thus  made  to  her. 

When  a  few  weeks  had  passed,  the  life  of  the  sick 
woman  became  more  and  more  feeble  until  one  nip-ht 

o 

in  late  November  the  last  tiny  spark  lost  its  glow  and 
went  out,  without  suffering  for  the  sick  woman  or 
warning  to  the  watcher  in  the  room. 

Two  days  afterward  the  house  was  thronged  again 
by  friends  and  neighbors  who  came  to  make  the  last 
farewells,  and  then  Rachel  was  laid  beneath  the  syca- 
more trees  by  Isaac's  side,  in  the  burial  ground  at 
Plymouth. 

All  through  the  time  of  illness  and  of  mourning 
George  Fotherly  ministered  to  the  Woolford  house- 
hold as  he  had  opportunity,  and  not  many  days  after 
Rachel's  death  he  went  to  the  county-town  and  took 


Quak 


370  e     uaeress. 

from  the  record  the  mortgage  upon  the  grey  house. 
Abby  had  never  known  of  it  and  she  should  not  know. 

He  came  often  to  see  Abby  and  the  aunt  who 
remained  with  her,  and  to  him  they  looked  for  counsel 
respecting  the  movements  that  should  be  made  respect- 
ing Abby's  future. 

Mrs.  Ponder  was  a  frequent  visitor  and  her  ardent 
desire  was  to  be  a  comforter. 

"And  now,  my  dear,"  she  said  one  day,  "you  must 
consider  very  thoughtfully  what  you  had  better  do 
with  yourself.  I  am  sure  you  will  carry  more  easily 
the  weight  of  your  sorrow  if  you  can  contrive  to  be 
busy." 

"I  must  earn  my  living,"  replied  Abby,  "and  I  am 
willing  to  try  very  hard  to  do  so,  but  I  am  not  sure 
just  what  I  ought  to  undertake." 

"Your  friends  must  try  to  discover  some  kind  of  a 
career  for  you,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder,  and  "then 
open  it  for  you.  You  have  proved  in  your  experi- 
ment with  the  little  African  estrays  in  Sharpsburg 
that  you  have  gifts  as  a  teacher,  and  teaching  is 
almost  as  honorable  a  profession  as  the  sacred  minis- 
try. A  thought  occurs  to  me:  Why  not  let  some  of 
our  rich  Episcopalians  rent  3^our  house  for  a  hand- 
some sum  and  try  to  build  up  a  great  Church  school 
for  girls  ?  Dr.  Ponder  could  be  the  nominal  head  of 
the  institution,  to  give  it  dignity  and  the  advantage 
of  Apostolic  authority,  and  you  could  take  a  place  in 
it  as  teacher  of  one  of  the  preparatory  departments. 
If  you  are  willing  I  will  talk  over  the  plan  with  Dr. 
Ponder  and  have  him  see  the  bishop  and  some  of  our 
wealthy  people  in  the  city;  and  by  this  means  not 


A  New  Master.  371 

only  will  you  have  a  comfortable  income,  but  you  will 
be  brought  directly  under  church-influence  and  no 
doubt  will  be  able  before  long  to  see  clearly  the  dif- 
ference between  the  Apostolic  Church  and  the  loose 
miscellaneous  denominations  that  are  around  us,  not 
one  of  which  has  any  right  to  call  itself  a  church,  or 
anything  else  than  a  persuasion,  although  goodness 
knows  how  any  well-balanced  person  can  be  per- 
suaded to  regard  them  as  an  approved  means  of  get- 
ting to  heaven,  completely  passes  my  power  of  com- 
prehension." 

George  had  strong  convictions  of  his  own  with 
respect  to  Abby's  destiny,  but  he  shrank  from 
expressing  them  to  her  in  the  time  of  her  greatest 
distress  lest  he  should  seem  to  be  taking  an  ungener- 
ous advantage  of  her.  But  one  day,  a  few  weeks  after 
the  funeral,  Abby  wrote  to  him  asking  him  to  come 
to  see  her,  and  George  slipped  the  note  in  his  pocket 
with  his  mind  made  up  to  speak  his  thought  to  Abby 
upon  his  next  visit  if  he  could  find  opportunity. 

Abby  gave  him  a  warm  welcome  when  he  came 
and  she  led  him  into  the  library,  where  she  put  him 
in  her  father's  chair  before  the  grate-fire,  while  she 
sat  near  to  him  and  facing  him. 

"George,"  she  said,  when  they  had  spoken  for  a 
little  while  of  other  things,  "I  wanted  to  see  thee  that 
I  might  take  counsel  of  thee  about  my  future.  Thee 
is  always  so  wise  and  kind  that  I  know  thee  will  not 
think  I  trouble  thee  too  much." 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Thee  can  never  trouble  me 
by  asking  me  to  help  thee." 

"Thee  has  told  me,  in  effect,  that  poor  father's  estate 
was  all  swallowed  up  by  his  creditors?" 


372  The  Quakeress. 

"Yes,  but  this  house  was  thy  mother's,  and  by  her 
death  it  falls  to  thee." 

"Is  there  no  encumbrance  on  it  ?" 

"No,"  answered  George,  "not  that  I  know  of,"  and 
that  was  just  the  truth. 

"Then,"  continued  Abby,  "I  have  shelter  secured, 
but  I  must  try  to  earn  something.  I  cannot  bear  to 
take  boarders." 

"I  should  advise  thee  not  to." 

"Mrs.  Ponder,"  said  Abby,  smiling,  "wants  me  to 
rent  the  dwelling  to  the  Episcopalians  for  a  church- 
school  for  girls,  and  she  thinks  I  might  become  a 
teacher  in  such  a  school  and  gradually  be  brought 
over  to  her  views." 

George  laughed  and  said: 

"Some  of  Friend  Ponder's  views  are  a  little  queer; 
but  she  is  a  good  woman  and  she  loves  thee." 

"I  had  already  thought  I  might  rent  the  house  to 
somebody  and  then,  with  the  rental  to  help  me,  begin 
teaching.  I  think  I  could  take  a  place  in  the  primary 
department  of  the  Friends'  School  in  Philadelphia 
and  board  in  the  city.  Or,  had  I  better  go  back  to 
Sharpsburg  and  begin  the  work  there  again?" 

"Thee  does  not  feel  drawn  to  that  ?" 

"No,  for  it  will  always  be  associated  in  my  mind 
with  that  dreadful  battle.  Does  thee  think  I  could 
get  a  position  in  the  Friends'  School  ?" 

"I  am  not  sure;  but  we  might  try  to  learn  about  it." 

"I  could  sew,  but  it  is  dreary  work,  and  ill-paid; 
and  then,  George,  I  fear  I  am  hardly  strong  enough 
to  sit  and  bend  over  such  a  task  all  day  long." 

"Thee  must  not  do  it." 


A  New  Master. 


373 


"I  will  be  greatly  obliged  to  thee,  then,  if  thee  will 
take  the  trouble  to  see  some  of  the  Friends  who 
direct  the  school  in  the  city  and  ask  them  if  they  can 
find  a  place  for  another  teacher.  I  fear  I  am  not  very 
skilful,  but  I  did  seem  to  succeed  fairly  well  with  the 
little  black  folk  at  Sharpsburg  and  I  will  try  very 
hard  to  do  well  if  the  Friends  will  open  a  way  for  me." 

George  remained  silent  for  a  while,  and  Abby,  with 
her  mind  wholly  upon  her  plan  of  going  into  the 
Friends'  School,  looked  into  the  fire  and  said  no 
more. 

"I  wish,"  said  George,  abruptly,  "that  thee  would 
let  me  plan  for  thee  instead  of  planning  for  thyself. 
I  do  not  much  like  any  of  thy  projects." 

"If  thee  would  plan  for  me  I  should  be  very  grate- 
ful to  thee.  I  am  so  little  wise  about  such  matters, 
and  things  that  women  can  do  are  so  few  in  number. 
Thee  has  some  idea  in  thy  mind?" 

"Yes,  but  I  am  not  sure  how  it  will  be  regarded 
by  thee." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  do  not  find  it  easy,"  said  George,  with  the  color 
coming  into  his  face,  "to  explain  the  matter  to  thee; 
and  then  I  fear  thee  may  think  me  unkind  and  selfish 
in  speaking  of  it  in  the  time  of  thy  great  sorrow;  but 
I  hope  thee  will  not  misjudge  me.  I  am  so  anxious 
to  serve  thee  that  indeed  I  would  rather  sacrifice  my- 
self completely  than  to  seek  to  please  myself." 

Abby's  cheeks  were  hot,  too.  She  folded  her  hands 
and  looked  downward.  Could  George  believe  that 
she  sent  for  him  that  she  might  artfully  lead  him  on 
to  the  confession  she  now  knew  was  coming?  Her 


374  The  Quakeress. 

conscience  was  clear;  she  had  never  had  a  thought 
of  such  a  thing. 

"Thee  has  not  forgotten,"  George  continued,  "that 
I  told  thee  once  I  loved  thee  dearly;  and  if  I  had  not 
told  thee,  still  thee  would  know  it.  Thee  knows  with- 
out any  further  words  of  mine  that  I  love  thee  now 
far  more  than  I  ever  did.  Is  it  displeasing  to  thee 
that  I  should  say  so?" 

"No!" 

"Thee  said,  out  there  in  the  garden,  thee  would 
never  marry  any  one  but  me.  O !  if  thee  could  bring 
thyself  now  to  go  one  step  further  and  to  say  thee 
will  take  me  for  thy  husband !  Not  that  thee  may 
have  a  protector  and  not  because  sorrow  has  made 
thee  desolate,  but  because  thee  loves  me  and  thee 
knows  that  I  love  thee  and  will  give  my  whole  life 
to  bringing  happiness  to  thee." 

"Alas !"  said  Abby,  looking  at  him  with  a  wan 
smile.  "I  fear  there  can  be  no  more  happiness  for 
me.  But  I  do  thank  thee  most  heartily  for  all  thy 
kindness  and  thy  affection." 

"And  thee  will  consent?  I  came  here  to-day 
resolved  to  ask  thee  that." 

Abby  withheld  her  speech  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  said: 

"But  if  I  shall  consent  will  it  not  seem  that  my 
motive  was  not  right?  I  fear  that  even  thee  might  sus- 
pect me;  but  I  speak  truly,  dear  George,  when  I  say 
that  I  did  not  think  of  this  action  of  thine  when  I 
asked  thee  to  come  to  see  me." 

"I  should  have  greater  joy  if  thee  had  thought  of 
it  and  desired  it.  But  I  suspect  thee  of  nothing.  I 


A  New  Master.  375 

am  sure  thee  has  always  cared  for  me,  and  had  we 
been  left  to  ourselves  I  believe  thee  would  have 
taken  me  for  thy  husband.  If  thee  will  take  me  now, 
thee  may  take  me  absolutely,  with  all  the  love  and 
trust  and  honor  and  unquestioning  faithfulness  that 
is  in  my  soul.  If  thee  inclines  at  all  to  it,  O  my  dear- 
est Abby,  do  not  be  turned  away  by  any  fear  of  thy- 
self or  me,  or  of  what  others  may  think.  I  could  give 
thee  up  to  make  thee  happy,  but  not  to  have  thee 
lonely  and  miserable  and  defenceless." 

"George,"  she  said,  turning  her  face  to  him.  "I 
am  but  a  poor  broken  creature  to  whom  life  has 
become  all  sorrowful.  But  since  mother  died  I  do  care 
more  for  thee  than  for  any  living  creature.  I  owe 
thee  much  indeed  for  all  thy  sweet,  gentle  kindness 
to  me  and  I  have  brought  woe  enough  to  thee.  If 
thee  will  take  me  with  all  my  griefs  and  faults  and 
frailties  and  let  me  try  to  love  thee  dearly,  I  will  give 
myself  to  thee  and  pray  always  that  I  may  be  worthy 
of  thee." 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  grasped  it  and 
lifting  her  to  her  feet,  he  put  his  arms  about  her  ten- 
derly and  kissed  her. 

"How  much  I  thank  thee,  my  dearest!"  he  said 
with  rapture  upon  his  face. 

He  kept  his  arm  about  her  and  she  put  her  head 
upon  his  breast. 

"The  gain  is  all  for  me,  dear  George,"  she  said. 
*'I  am  forlorn  and  weak  and  sinful  and  not  deserving 
to  be  a  wife  to  such  a  man  as  thee.  Thee  will  weary 
of  me,  dear,  and  of  my  sorrowfulness." 

He  laughed  joyously  and  embraced  and  kissed  her 
again. 


376  Tne  Quakeress. 

"I  have  loved  thee  since  I  was  a  child  and  loved 
thee  more  and  more  as  the  years  rolled  by.  I  shall 
love  thee  always,  here  and  in  eternity.  This  is  the 
crown  of  my  life-long  hopes  and  prayers,  that  thee 
should  be  my  wife  and  I  should  give  up  everything  to 
thee!" 

It  was  with  much  satisfaction  that  all  the  members 
of  the  meeting  learned  that  these  two  choice  Friends 
were  to  be  made  man  and  wife;  and  when,  next  First- 
day,  George  and  Abby  drove  to  Plymouth  in  the 
pleasant  old  fashion,  everybody  had  congratulations 
to  offer.  The  drive  was  not  discomforting  to  Abby, 
for  it  recalled  all  the  delights  that  had  come  to  her 
from  George's  society  before  trouble  enveloped  her. 
Sometimes  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  day 
when  she  walked  along  this  road  with  Clayton  and 
sat  not  far  from  him  in  the  house  of  worship;  but  she 
strove  to  put  these  memories  away  from  her,  and 
to  be  faithful  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  her  soul  to 
the  man  to  whom  she  had  at  the  last  given  herself. 
After  all  the  anguish  she  had  endured,  it  was  restful 
just  to  lean  on  him,  to  look  up  to  him  and  trust  him, 
and  to  try  to  transform  into  true  affection  the  strong 
feeling  of  regard  she  entertained  for  him.  She  had 
found  the  way  of  unfaithfulness  so  hard  that  she 
resolved  with  all  her  power  to  give  to  this  brave  and 
generous  man  who  loved  her  the  best  she  could  com- 
mand for  him. 

And  George  never  for  a  moment  seemed  to 
doubt  her  loyalty.  He  was  openly  exultant  that  she 
had  given  herself  to  him  and  he  lavished  upon  her 
kindness  and  caress.  In  his  preaching  now  on  First- 


A  New  Master. 


377 


days,  there  was  a  note  of  triumph  and  exaltation  that 
was  new  to  his  hearers.  Earthly  life  had  become  more 
joyful  for  him  and  at  the  same  time  his  vision  of  the 
heavenly  things,  of  the  holiness  of  the  love  which  is, 
as  he  believed,  a  part  of  the  eternities,  was  made 
clearer  and  more  glorious. 

The  marriage  had  been  arranged  for  the  early 
spring-time,  and  Abby  would  have  it  in  the  grey 
house,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  her  father  and  mother, 
and  she  would  ask  that  only  a  few  of  their  nearest 
relatives  and  a  dozen  or  more  representatives  of  the 
meeting  should  be  present. 

The  brief  and  beautiful  ceremony  \vas  performed 
in  the  long  north  parlor,  where  the  bridegroom  and 
the  bride,  standing  together  by  the  front  windows  and 
facing  the  group  of  guests,  repeated  the  words  with 
which  the  members  of  the  Society  join  themselves  in 
the  holy  estate  of  matrimony. 

George,  taking  Abby  by  the  hand,  declared: 

"In  the  presence  of  the  Lord  and  before  this  assem- 
bly, I  take  thee,  Abigail  Woolford,  to  be  my  wife, 
promising  with  Divine  assistance  to  be  unto  thee  a 
loving  and  faithful  husband  until  death  shall  separate 
us." 

Then  Abby  repeated  the  words  for  the  woman's 
part,  and  the  knot  was  tied  by  the  laws  of  God  and 
of  man. 

But  Dr.  Ponder,  standing  far  back  in  the  room, 
grieved  much  that  these  two  young  people,  blinded 
by  education  and  prejudice  against  the  truth,  should 
not  have  sought,  and  thus  might  miss,  the  benediction 
of  the  Church;  and  so,  silently,  without  articulation, 


378  The  Quakeress. 

but  with  a  purpose  that  there  should  be  genu- 
ine consecration,  he  repeated  the  whole  of  the  mar- 
riage service  in  the  prayer-book,  and  then  shutting 
his  eyes,  he  solemnly  bestowed  the  Apostolic  blessing 
upon  the  pair  and  breathed  freely  to  think  that  all 
was  now  well. 

On  his  way  home  Mrs.  Ponder  said  to  him : 

"Really,  birdie,  if  I  were  married  in  that  rude, 
unchurchly  way,  I  could  not  convince  myself  that  I 
was  not  still  single." 

Then  Dr.  Ponder  told  her  how  he  had  conveyed 
the  sanction  of  the  Church  to  the  union  of  George 
with  Abby,  and  Mrs.  Ponder  was  grateful  for  his 
thoughtfulness. 

"At  the  same  time,  birdie,  while  I  think  the  Church 
is  practically  always  right,  and  her  services  too  sacred 
to  be  tampered  with,  I  really  do  wish  sometimes  that 
the  marriage  service  might  have  omitted  from  it  that 
unfortunate  reference  to  Isaac  and  Rebekah.  Isaac 
was  weak  and  foolish  enough,  dear  knows;  but  if  I 
were  a  man  that  artful  old  humbug  of  a  Rebekah 
would  be  the  last  kind  of  a  woman  I  should  choose 
for  a  wife." 

The  honeymoon  was  spent  in  Boston  and  New 
York,  cities  Abby  had  never  seen  before,  and  which 
she  looked  on  now  with  keen  interest.  In  New  York 
one  sunny  afternoon,  on  their  way  homeward,  they 
sauntered  into  Central  Park.  They  tried  to  hurry 
across  one  of  the  wide  drive-ways  among  the  horses 
and  the  vehicles  that  thronged  it.  The  crowd  was 
so  great  that  they  were  confused  and  they  narrowly 
escaped  being  run  down  by  a  richly-caparisoned  team 


A  New  Master.  379 

that  dashed  up  to  them.  George  seized  Abby  and 
thrust  her  aside  while  he  pushed  against  the  door 
of  the  low  open  carriage  to  which  the  horses  were 
attached.  The  horses  were  sharply  halted  by  the 
driver,  and  looking  up,  George  and  Abby  saw,  sitting 
in  the  vehicle  within  arm's  reach  of  them,  a  woman 
covered  with  jewels,  brilliantly  dressed  and  with  her 
face  painted.  A  vulgar-looking  man  sat  by  her  side. 

It  was  Dolly  Harley,  and  when  she  recognized  the 
Fotherlys  a  deep  shadow  came  upon  her  face,  and 
turning  towards  George  she  spat  viciously  at  him  and 
then  the  carriage  passed  swiftly  around  the  curve 
behind  the  trees  and  she  disappeared. 

"Her  feet  go  down  to  death,  her  steps  take  hold 
on  hell !"  said  George. 

But  Abby  seemed  to  hear  him  not.  She  leaned 
heavily  upon  him  and  tottered  to  a  seat  upon  the 
bench  upon  the  grass,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief,  she  wept. 

Neither  ever  spoke  again  to  the  other  of  what  they 
had  seen,  but  Abby  shuddered  when,  more  than  once 
in  the  days  that  remained  to  her,  she  thought  of  her 
own  wild  flight  in  obedience  to  Clayton's  summons 
and  what  was  the  doom  that  might  have  been  hers. 


CHAPTER  XXL 
'Farewell,  a  Long  Farewell!'1 

GEORGE  and  his  wife  came  back  to  the  grey  house, 
for  he  had  yielded  at  once  to  her  expressed  wish  that 
it  should  be  their  home.  The  arrangement  was  made 
that  they  should  live  there  all  the  year  until  the  hot 
weather  came  and  that  they  should  go  then  for  a 
month  or  two  to  George's  house  upon  the  hill-top 
where  even  in  the  warmest  times  there  was  always  a 
breeze  blowing  about  the  porches. 

From  Connock  George  would  drive  to  the  farm 
every  morning  to  direct  operations  there,  and  some- 
times in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sky  was  clear,  he 
would  take  Abby  with  him  across  the  river  and  up 
through  the  shadows  of  the  Aramink  gap  to  see  his 
fields  and  to  tarry  for  a  while  in  the  summer-home, 
overlooking  the  valley. 

She  was  not  willing  that  the  furniture  of  the  Con- 
nock  house  should  be  added  to,  or  changed,  and 
George  was  glad  to  humor  her,  treating  as  with  rev- 
erence the  things  and  the  arrangements  prepared 
long  ago  by  Isaac  and  Rachel;  but  he  filled  the  sta- 
bles with  fine  horses  and  he  made  the  garden  lovelier 
and  more  fertile,  and  he  lingered  about  the  place 
persistently,  rarely  going  into  the  city,  and  always 
returning  early  from  the  farm,  resolved  that  Abby 
should  have  small  reason  to  complain  of  loneliness. 

She  was  glad  to  have  him  with  her,  he  was  so 
(380) 


4  A  Long  Farewell!'          381 

thoughtful  and  kind  and  affectionate,  and  in  his  pres- 
ence she  had  diversion  from  the  memories  that 
drifted  into  her  mind.  She  leaned  heavily  upon  him 
and  found  consolation  in  his  manly  strength,  his 
cheerful  courage  and  his  complete  devotion  to  her. 

In  July  the  second  invasion  of  the  North  by  the 
Confederate  army  began,  and  all  through  Eastern 
Pennsylvania  there  was  dread  that  the  Southern  host 
would  pass  the  Susquehanna  and  force  its  way  to  the 
city.  Many  times  Abby  thought  she  might  live  to 
see  that  dusty  grey  army  which  had  hurried  by  the 
little  school-house  in  the  Maryland  town,  pouring 
down  the  Schuylkill  Valley  past  Connock  and  bring- 
ing terror  and  devastation  to  that  peaceful  and  lovely 
region.  But  the  contest  at  Gettysburg  turned  the 
flood  to  the  Southward  again  and  by  the  time  George 
and  his  wife  were  ready  to  make  their  summer  home 
on  the  hill,  all  the  peril  was  past  and  the  valley  heard 
no  noises  but  the  rattle  of  the  trains,  the  reverberat- 
ing screams  of  the  locomotive  whistles  and  the  sough- 
ing of  the  mighty  furnaces  upon  the  river-bank. 

"It  was  most  fortunate,"  said  Mrs.  Ponder  to 
Abby,  while  they  sat  together  upon  the  farm-house- 
porch  one  sultry  summer  morning,  "that  Lee's  army 
did  not  come  down  the  Valley.  We  hadn't  a  single 
thing  to  offer  resistance  with  but  the  Connock  Home- 
Guard,  and  the  men  in  that  body  are  only  nominally 
warriors.  So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  perceive,  the 
solitary  manoeuvre  they  know  anything  about  is  fall- 
ing back,  and  it  is  my  firm  belief  that,  if  the  rebels 
had  come  along,  every  mother's  son  of  them  would 
have  backed  from  here  to  Canada." 


382  The  Quakeress. 

When  the  summer  was  ended  and  George  brought 
his  wife  back  again  to  the  grey  house  for  which  she 
pined,  he  was  grieved  and  distressed  that  she  seemed 
not  to  have  gained  in  strength.  She  tried  to  appear 
joyous  and  happy,  for  his  sake,  but  it  was  not  difficult 
for  him  to  perceive  that  her  soul  was  sad  and  that 
her  cheek  grew  whiter  and  her  hand  thinner  even 
while  her  behavior  was  shaped  to  persuade  him  that 
she  had  bade  farewell  to  sorrow. 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  have  her  seek,  before 
the  winter  came,  the  restoring  power  of  a  milder 
climate  and  new  scenery,  but  the  South  was  closed 
against  them  by  the  war;  California  was  inaccessible 
by  railroad  and  the  Southern  islands  or  Europe  could 
be  reached  only  by  a  sea-voyage,  which  Abby  felt 
would  be  beyond  her  strength. 

Thus  the  autumn  passed  and  the  beginnings  of 
winter  appeared  with  Abby  slowly  failing  and  with 
George's  heart  heavy  from  the  fear  that  she  would 
not  be  with  him  long. 

She  seemed  to  have  increasing  dread  of  everything 
that  reminded  her  of  the  battle  that  had  raged  about 
her  in  the  summer  of  1862.  The  rumbling  of  the 
quarry-blasts  morning  and  evening  near  to  Connock 
sounded  precisely  like  the  roaring  of  the  cannon  at 
Antietam,  and  sometimes  in  the  quiet  of  the  night  the 
crackling  of  the  red-hot  iron  between  the  rolls  in  the 
Connock  iron-mills  was  brought  up  the  hill  by  the 
south-wind  and  it  was  hardly  different  from  the  rat- 
tling of  musketry.  She  shivered  when  these  noises 
came  to  her  with  more  than  usual  distinctness  and 
she  would  clasp  George's  hand,  if  he  were  near,  and 
with  wide-open,  frightened  eyes,  say: 


"A  Long  Farewell!'1          383 

"It  was  like  that,  dear  George,  only  a  thousand 
times  worse,  and  all  day  long,  all  night  long.  I  wish 
I  could  not  hear  it  now,  in  our  quiet  home !" 

The  winter  was  spent  in  quietness  and  it  went  by 
swiftly  for  George,  whose  happiness  would  have  been 
absolute  but  for  the  tender  health  of  his  wife.  There 
were  not  many  visitors,  and  George  and  Abby  rarely 
went  anywhere  but  to  meeting.  The  Ponders  called 
more  frequently  than  any  others  of  the  neighbors, 
and  Abby  had  some  pleasure  from  Mrs.  Ponder's 
lively  talk  and  true  sympathy.  Dr.  Ponder  tried  to 
be  sociable,  but  he  was  a  little  too  much  afraid  of 
George  to  try  to  argue  with  him,  and  life  had  no  ele- 
ment of  joy  in  it  for  him  unless  he  could  be  permitted 
to  employ  his  persuasive  power  in  the  work  of  bring- 
ing into  the  fold  schismatics,  heretics  and  other  wan- 
derers from  the  path  of  rectitude. 

By  the  time  the  buds  began  to  swell  upon  the  trees 
in  the  garden  about  the  grey  house,  Abby  had  failed 
so  far  that  she  was  hardly  strong  enough  to  walk 
without  assistance;  and  she  became  more  feeble  day 
by  day. 

One  First-day  morning,  late  in  May,  Abby  sat  in 
the  deep  arm-chair  in  the  bow-window  and  looked 
out  upon  the  shining  landscape  above  the  town  and 
at  the  billowy  white  clouds  that  floated  indolently 
across  the  blue  of  the  sky.  George  was  by  her  and 
held  her  hand,  and  now  and  then  she  would  turn  her 
wan  face  toward  him  and  smile  at  him;  and  he  would 
kiss  her  cheek  and  speak  tenderly  to  her.  She  seemed 
to  herself  to  be  hard  and  wicked  that  she  could  not 
love  him  more,  this  man  so  good  and  true  and  filled 


The  Quakeress. 


with  love  for  her.  It  was  a  kind  of  love  for  him  she 
had,  she  said,  but  there  was  a  mightier  passion  within 
her  and  she  could  not  completely  master  it.  Nor  did 
she  really  wish  that  it  should  be  overcome  and  for- 
gotten. But  she  did  wish  sometimes  when  George 
held  her  to  his  breast  and  kissed  her  passionately 
that  the  face  of  another  man  would  not  come  between 
her  and  her  husband. 

"It  is  very  sweet  to  me,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
him  and  closing  her  hand  on  his,  "to  know  that  thee 
loves  me  so  dearly.  I  wish  I  were  more  worthy  of 
thee,  dear  George;  I  do  not  deserve  thy  love,  but 
thee  forgives  me  my  unworthiness,  does  thee  not?" 

"I  do  not  acknowledge  it,"  he  answered.  "Thee  is 
the  dearest  thing  in  all  the  earth  to  me.  I  cannot  see 
thy  faults,  if  thee  has  any.  Thee  has  none  for  me." 

"They  always  said  it  was  so  with  true  lovers,"  she 
answered,  "but  I  did  not  fully  understand  it  before. 
How  wonderful  it  is,  George,  that  Gocl  should  make 
it  possible  for  thee  to  care  so  much  for  so  forlorn  a 
woman  as  I,  and  to  blind  thy  eyes  to  my  frailties!  I 
thank  Him  for  it,  for  there  is  nobody  left  for  me  now 
but  thee,  my  husband.  Nobody  left!  God  has  called 
them,  one  after  another.  I  could  not  endure  to  be 
alone;  and  I  am  grateful  to  God  for  thee." 

"And  I  for  thee,  my  dear.  It  is  indeed  wonderful 
that  the  spirits  of  two  separate  beings  should  be 
drawn  together  and  amid  sweetness  that  cannot  be 
spoken  should  be  fused  until  they  become  one  spirit. 
Love  is  the  end  and  the  beginning.  It  is  the  primary, 
infinite  force.  It  is  God;  and  we  taste  of  God  when 
we  love  each  other;  we  shall  love  in  heaven." 


"A  Long  Farewell!"          38s 

A  little  pang  came  to  her  when  he  said  that.  Far 
down  in  the  hidden  chambers  of  her  heart  she  had 
perceived  a  hope,  faint  but  persistent,  that  the  other 
world  would  have  a  different  reunion  for  her.  But 
she  said: 

"Thee  will  weary  of  me  on  earth,  I  fear." 

"No,  dearest;  thee  is  my  joy  and  my  peace  and  I 
will  be  glad  in  thee  more  and  more  every  day.  When 
thee  is  well  and  strong  again — " 

"Ah,  George !"  she  said,  smiling  sadly  upon  him. 
"I  shall  never  be  well  and  strong  again." 

"Yes  thee  will,"  he  said  cheerily.  "Thee  is  very 
young  and  thee  has  never  had  serious  sickness  before. 
Thee  will  gain  strength  as  the  summer  grows,  and 
when  the  autumn  comes,  the  roses  will  all  be  upon 
thy  cheeks  again,  those  dear  cheeks!"  and  he  put  his 
hand  softly  upon  her  face. 

"I  wish  it  could  be  so,  for  thy  sake,"  she  answered, 
"for  I  should  be  glad  to  repay  thee  for  all  thy  tender- 
ness by  making  thee  very  happy;  but  I  fear  I  shall 
not  stay  with  thee.  It  is  for  thee  I  fear;  not  for  my- 
self. Will  thee  go  to  meeting  this  morning?" 

"I  will  stay  with  thee." 

"Perhaps  it  may  be  thy  duty  to  go.  There  is  now 
no  one  there  to  preach  but  thee.  Love  for  me  must 
not  blind  thee  to  thy  obligations." 

"It  does  not,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  called  to  go  this 
morning.  It  is  clear  to  me  that  God  would  have  me 
stay  by  thee.  I  must  not  leave  thee." 

"We  can  have  meeting  here,  George?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  thee  remember,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes 

•s 


386  The  Quakeress. 

fixed  as  if  she  were  looking  far  away  into  the  past, 
"that  meeting  we  had  under  the  apple  tree,  the  last 
time  I  mean,  on  the  First-day  morning,  and  how  I 
heard  the  music  and  thee  chided  me?" 

"Yes,  but  dearest  I  did  not  scold  thee,  did  I?" 

"Thee  feared  for  me  because  I  liked  to  hear  it;  thee 
could  not  have  scolded  me.  Thee  loved  me  then." 

"O  yes,  then  and  always !" 

"I  knew  it,  George,"  she  said  and  smiled  at  him 
again,  "but  I  did  not  understand  love  then,  as  I  do 
now.  How  great  have  been  the  changes  since  that 
morning!  It  was  but  two  years  ago,  but  to  me  it 
seems  a  thousand  years  away.  If  God  had  called  me 
then,  perhaps  it  would  have  been  better." 

"Shall  we  worship  here?"  asked  George,  with  a 
purpose  to  divert  her  from  sad  thoughts. 

"As  thee  will,  but  it  had  come  into  my  mind  that  I 
should  like  once  more  to  have  with  thee  a  meeting 
for  worship  in  the  garden  as  we  did  on  that  day  long 
gone  by." 

"Thee  is  hardly  strong  enough  to  go  there." 

"I  am  if  thee  will  put  thy  arm  about  me  and  let  me 
lean  hard  on  thee,  and  I  know  thee  will  consent  to 
that." 

He  lifted  her  gently  from  the  chair  and  upholding 
her  he  passed  with  her  through  the  door  at  the  back 
of  the  hall  out  upon  the  lawn  and  across  it  to  the 
wide-branched  apple  tree.  Then  he  put  a  rest  beneath 
her  feet  and  wrapped  a  shawl  about  her,  before  he  sat 
beside  her. 

"Thank  thee,  my  husband,"  she  said  to  him. 

His  arm  was  half  around  her  form  and  she  sat  close 


A  Long  Farewell! 


to  him  that  she  might  lean  upon  him  if  her  strength 
failed.  They  closed  their  eyes  that  their  souls  might 
have  vision  of  the  spiritual  world. 

Around  them  and  above  them  the  natural  world 
was  full  of  the  loveliness  of  the  bright  sunshine  and 
the  verdure  and  the  odor  of  flowers  and  the  song  of 
birds.  The  perfumed  wind,  blowing  over  the  bloom 
of  the  gardens  beyond,  came  in  little  puffs  and  ran  in 
shivers  along  the  grass  at  the  feet  of  the  worshipers 
and  died  away.  From  the  open  windows  of  the 
•church,  as  of  old,  came  the  faint  elfland  harmonies  of 
the  organ  and  sometimes  the  sound  of  the  singers  who 
were  praising  God. 

George,  shutting  the  door  of  his  soul  to  all  things 
of  sense,  opened  it  wide  to  the  Divine  Influence.  He 
worshiped,  and  it  was  worship  of  prayer.  Claiming 
fellowship  with  Him  through  the  privilege  of  the 
Divine  Mercy,  he  entreated  Him  as  it  were  face  to  face 
with  Him  to  spare  this  wife  to  this  husband  if  that 
should  be  in  accordance  with  the  Divine  will.  Com- 
ing closer  and  closer  to  this  being  whom  he  called 
Father  and  Love,  the  Quaker  wrestled  with  Him  that 
He  should  consent  to  prolong  this  precious  life,  to 
put  health  again  into  that  dear  body  and  to  avert 
from  George  the  agony  of  separation.  As  in  the 
silence  the  fervor  of  his  desire  increased,  he  became 
almost  daring  in  his  claim  for  the  fulfilment  now  and 
here  of  the  promise  that  the  prayer  of  faith  shall  save 
the  sick;  and  then,  a  wave  of  humility  sweeping 
through  his  soul,  he  bowed  his  will  to  that  of  the 
Being  to  whom  he  prayed  and  asked  rather  that  God 
should  deal  with  her  as  should  be  best;  entreating 


388  The  Quakeress. 

only  that,  whether  she  stayed  with  him  or  went  away 
her  love  for  him  might  grow  stronger  and  his  love 
for  her  might  never  know  decrease. 

He  was  long  in  the  spirit,  and  when  his  prayer  was 
ended  he  found  that  Abby's  head  had  drooped  upon 
his  shoulder.  She  was  quiet.  He  opened  his  eyes 
and  looked  before  him.  "She  is  praying  yet,"  he  said 
to  himself  and  sat  very  still,  that  he  should  not  trouble 
her.  Closing  his  eyes  again,  he  made  in  few  words 
another  prayer  that  God  would  bless  her  in  her  love 
for  Him  and  for  her  husband. 

Her  stillness  seemed  strange  to  him.  A  sharp 
pang  of  fright  went  through  his  soul.  He  took  her 
hand,  as  if  to  break  the  meeting.  It  was  cold.  Then 
he  perceived  she  was  not  breathing.  He  clasped  his 
arms  about  her,  and  turned  himself  so  that  he  could 
see  her  face  to  face.  Her  heart  had  ceased  to  beat; 
her  eyes  were  fixed;  her  lips  were  smiling  but  fast  set, 
and  the  shadow  of  death  was  upon  her  brow  and  her 
cheeks. 

With  George  she  had  gone  into  the  world  of  spirits ; 
but  he  had  come  back  alone. 

He  felt,  as  he  held  her  there,  that  he  should  like  to 
send  out  to  the  heavens  above  him  a  great  cry  of 
agony  and  of  protest  against  this  frightful  tragedy 
that  had  come  to  him  so  silently  and  swiftly.  But  he 
restrained  himself;  and  then,  uncertain  what  to  do, 
bewildered  and  grief-stricken,  he  looked  about  as  if 
to  find  some  human  creature  from  whom  he  could 
get  help  and  sympathy.  But  no  one  was  near. 

Then  stooping  he  took  the  body  of  his  wife  in  his 
arms  and  held  it  close  to  him  and  kissed  the  cold  face 


"A  Long  FareweU!'          389 

again  and  again,  as  if  she  were  alive.  Lifting  her 
from  the  bench  and  bearing  the  burden  over  his 
heart,  he  turned  toward  the  grey  house,  hardly  know- 
ing whither  he  went  or  what  next  he  should  do,  hav- 
ing indeed  his  faculties  almost  benumbed. 

By  this  time  the  people  were  streaming  from  the 
church  and  thronging  the  sidewalk,  and  some  of  them 
laughed  among  themselves  at  the  spectacle  of  the 
big  man  thus  publicly  making  manifestation  of  his 
affection  for  his  little  wife. 

Mrs.  Ponder  came  in  from  the  church  and  stood 
upon  her  porch  as  George  passed  near  to  the  hedge. 
She  perceived  that  something  unusual  had  happened, 
and  after  looking  at  him  for  a  moment,  she  came  to 
the  porch-railing  and  asked  with  an  anxious  voice : 

"Is  Abby  ill,  Mr.  Fotherly?" 

Half  blinded  by  his  tears,  he  recognized  Mrs.  Pon- 
der, and  without  stopping  on  his  way  to  the  house, 
he  answered : 

"Alas!  she  is  dead!" 

When  on  next  Fourth-day  Abby  had  been  laid  in 
the  burial  ground  close  by  Isaac  and  Rachel,  George 
came  back  alone  to  the  grey  house  to  take  up  again 
the  life  from  which  hope  and  joy  had  gone  forever. 
Shutting  the  door  against  the  friends  whose  pity  had 
in  it  no  element  of  consolation  for  him,  he  wandered 
about  looking  for  and  reverently  considering  the 
places  and  the  things  which  had  been  most  closely 
associated  with  Abby. 

Everything  she  had  touched,  every  room  in  which 
he  had  often  seen  her,  had  acquired  a  kind  of  holiness. 
The  pin  she  wore  in  her  silken  shawl,  the  shawl  itself 


390  The  Quakeress. 

that  had  encircled  her  neck,  her  shoes,  the  tiny  brown 
bonnet,  were  more  than  things;  they  had  been  made 
sacred  by  her  handling;  something  of  her  very  self 
had  gone  into  them. 

As  George  looked  and  looked  at  them,  and  pored 
over  them  until  the  tears  blurred  his  vision,  she 
seemed  so  real — so  much  the  most  important  part  of 
the  constitution  of  human  society — a  part  of  his  own 
intense  existence,  that  he  felt  as  if  life  could  not  be 
real  without  her.  He  would  hardly  have  been  sur- 
prised if  he  had  heard  her  gentle  footsteps  upon  the 
stair  outside  the  door,  and  sometimes  he  did  imagine 
that  he  heard  her  voice  calling  him.  But  in  truth 
there  was  silence  all  about  him  and  the  house  was 
empty  and  desolate;  she  had  vanished,  and  whither? 
Dead — spiritually  and  finally  in  extinction,  she  could 
not  be.  From  the  first  moment  of  her  departure  her 
immortal  life  in  another  world  was  to  him  a  fact  apart 
from  logic  and  evidence.  The  proofs  were  in  his  own 
unaided  convictions. 

He  walked  amid  the  verdure  of  the  garden;  on  the 
soft,  sweet  grass,  among  the  vines  and  the  flowers. 
He  sat  upon  the  rustic  bench  beneath  the  outspread 
apple-tree,  and  hearkened  to  the  birds.  "They  seem 
to  live  forever,"  he  whispered,  half  angrily.  Away 
to  the  purple  hills  he  looked  and  then  at  the  common 
life  that  still  poured  along  the  village-street,  vulgar 
and  dull,  as  if  there  were  no  love  and  no  loss  and  no 
heaven  and  no  spiritual  presence,  and  wondered  for 
her  and  was  fiercely  hungry  for  her. 

"It  is  the  common  doom,"  said  a  voice  within  him. 
"Yes,  all  men  and  women  in  the  past  have  gone  that 


Long  Farewell! 


391 


way.  There  is  no  partiality;  God  is  just;  He  is  lov- 
ing." Yes,  yes,  but  no  argument,  no  persuasiveness, 
no  imperious  command  to  the  spirit  to  stop  its  outcry, 
availed  anything.  She  was  gone,  and  that  was  just  all 
in  all  to  him. 

The  sunshine  seemed  darkness,  and  the  world, 
thrilling  with  brightness  and  joyous  life,  was  void 
and  senseless  without  her  presence. 

It  was  something,  perhaps,  to  say :  "Here  we  sat 
and  worshiped  and  I  touched  her  dear  hand;  here  we 
talked  of  the  loveliness  of  the  hills  and  of  the  eternal 
hills  of  God  where  now  she  is;  here  we  plucked  the 
roses  and  down  these  very  steps  we  came  hand  in 
hand,  she  as  my  bride,  my  darling  wife."  There  was 
something  in  these  memories,  now  glorified;  but  how 
little  indeed  when  she  is  not  here?  Without  her  all 
else  to  George  was  hollowness. 

He  looked  much  at  her  picture,  taken  before  she 
had  met  the  Southerners.  He  saw  the  sweet  lips  with 
the  faint  smile  upon  them;  the  dear  brown  eyes,  the 
lovely  hair,  the  tender  soul  looking  out  upon  him. 
It  was  beautiful  and  full  of  grace;  but  after  all,  this  is 
only  white  paper  and  brown  shadow  and  she  has  gone 
forever  and  forever. 

Forever?  Has  she  not  entered  into  the  house  of 
many  mansions  where  the  Saviour  is?  Or,  indeed,  if 
it  be  true  that  God's  angels  wait  and  watch  for  the 
joy  that  comes  to  them  when  a  human  soul  turns  from 
sin  to  righteousness,  must  they  not  be  always  in  con- 
scious relation  with  the  spirits  of  those  beloved  by 
them  and  who  still  await  the  summons?  And  is  she 
not  now  numbered  with  the  angelic  host  and  so  sure 


392 


Tke  Quakeress. 


to  come  near  to  him — to  him  who  loves  her  and  longs 
for  her,  that  she  may  know  the  yearning  of  his  heart  ? 

"But  is  she  mine?"  he  thought,  "or  was  there 
another,  already  dead,  to  whom  she  cleaves  as  her  right- 
ful husband  ?"  That  was  too  terrible  to  contemplate. 

George  lay  by  in  a  secret  place  her  personal  things 
— the  gloves  wrinkled  by  her  fingers,  the  dainty  gar- 
ments, the  golden  buttons,  the  trifles  of  a  woman's 
dress,  and  sometimes,  when  he  had  looked  long  at 
the  picture  of  her  dear  face,  he  took  these  out  and 
kissed  them  and  wept  over  them,  without  being 
ashamed.  Then  he  would  pray  for  her  (forbidden 
though  that  may  be)  that  her  soul  might  be  washed 
from  every  stain;  that  she  might  be  permitted  to 
come  near  to  him,  if  that  were  possible;  that  some 
sense  of  her  presence  might  reach  him  through  the 
veil,  and  that  some  day  he  might  be  with  her,  and  call 
her  wife  forever  and  forever, 


THE   END. 


IN  HAPPY  HOLLOW 

BY  MAX  ADELER 

With  Profuse  Illustrations  by  Herman  Rountree 
and  Clare  Victor  Dwiggins 


Happy  Hollow  is  a  pretty  village  in  which  lived  and  moved 
a  group  of  people  every  one  of  whom  has  marked  individuality 
and  is  the  actor  in  a  little  drama  in  which  fun  is  mingled  with 
genuine  pathos.  The  most  conspicuous  figure  is  Colonel  Joseph 
Bantam,  a  veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  who  is  fond  of  boasting 
of  his  valorous  conduct  upon  the  battlefield,  and  who  is  the 
victim  of  an  incurable  impecuniosity  which  impels  him  to 
make  his  friends  repeatedly  his  creditors  for  five-dollar  loans. 
He  will  bring  to  the  minds  of  many  American  men  who  have 
become  creditors  under  such  circumstances,  reminiscences  tinc- 
tured with  mournfulness  and  mirthfulness.  Other  features  of 
this  lively,  interesting  and,  in  a  degree,  tragic  story,  are  the 
descriptions  of  an  old-fashioned  school  for  boys  (evidently 
written  from  the  author's  personal  experiences),  the  remarkable 
strike  which  almost  ruined  Happy  Hollow,  the  quarrel  among 
the  church  people  over  a  vexed  question  of  Scriptures,  and 
Colonel  Bantam's  wonderfully  successful  attempt  to  produce  rain 
by  firing  cannon.  The  humor  of  these  narratives  is  fresh,  bright, 
original  and  pure;  while  the  serious  side  of  the  history  of  the 
Bantams  and  their  friends  is  presented  with  charm  that  will 
impress  every  reader.  "In  Happy  Hollow,"  with  its  predomi- 
nant humor,  relieved  by  tragedy,  is  a  half-way  book  between 
the  author's  "Out  of  the  Hurly-Burly,"  which  is  devoted  almost 
completely  to  amusement,  and  his  "Quakeress,"  in  which  the 
humor  serves  merely  to  lighten  the  sombreness  of  the  picture 
represented. 

12mo.          •  •          Price,  $1.25 


THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  CO.,  Publishers 

PHILADELPHIA 


CAPTAIN    BLUITT. 

By  MAX  ADELER. 

A  book  of  genuine  humor  is  not  a  mere  "funny  "  book.  Il 
deals  with  both  the  serious  and  the  amusing  sides  of  human 
life,  and  the  humor  is  the  natural,  easy,  unforced  outcome  of 
the  relation  of  the  various  characters  to  the  various  situations. 

There  is  much  grave  matter  in  Max  Adeler'  s  ' '  Captain 
Bluitt"  ;  and  sometimes  seriousness  deepens  into  tragedy,  as 
in  the  chapter  ' '  Phoebe  Tarsel  Goes  Home, ' '  of  which  a  Lon- 
don journal  said,  "  You  can't  lay  the  book  down  to  speak  to  a 
friend  without  a  lump  in  your  throat,  and  you  can't  read  that 
chapter  unmoved  unless  you  are  built  on  a  different  plan  from 
your  fellows  ' '  ;  but  there  is  also  a  lot  of  good  fun,  such  as  is 
found  in  few  modern  stories.  When  the  final  verdict  is  given 
upon  the  quality  of  American  humor,  we  are  sure  a  first  place 
will  be  allotted  to  the  stories  of  Captain  Bluitt' s  experiment 
with  a  catapult  and  of  his  venture  into  the  mysteries  of 
"  haruspication  ". 

The  modern  American  school  board  did  not  rank  high 
among  the  sources  of  fun  until  Max  Adeler  described  the 
School  Board  of  Turley,  and  so  immortalized  that  body  ;  and 
if  the  humor  of  an  American  election  was  ever  better  devel- 
oped than  in  the  narrative  of  Rufus  Potter's  political  campaign, 
we  do  not  know  it. 

The  truth  is  that  the  folks  in  this  story  are  real  people,  who 
lead  real  lives,  and  out  of  them  and  their  movements  to  and  fro 
the  author  has  contrived  to  extract  plenty  of  good  fun,  some 
lively  adventures,  a  bit  of  tragedy,  and  many  incidents  highly 
charged  with  feeling. 

Max  Adder's  "  Out  of  the  Hurly- Burly"  has  retained  its  popu- 
larity for  more  than  thirty  years.  The  prediction  is  ventured  that 
"Captain  Bluitt"  will  have  as  long  a  life  or  longer. 

12mo,  Cloth,  extra,  illustrated     .     .     $1.50. 
THE  JOHN  C  WINSTON  CO.,  Publishers 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


Out  of  the  Hurly=BurIy. 

By  MAX    ADELER, 

Author  of  "Captain  Bluitt,  etc.,  etc. 

WITH  W  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  A.  B.  FROST  AND  OTHERS. 


A  BOOK  WITH  A   RECORD. 

Max  Adder's  "  Out  of  the  Hurly-Burly  "  has  a  notable  history.  It 
wi  s  first  published  nearly  thirty  years  ago,  and  every  year  since  that  time 
there  has  been  a  large  demand  for  it.  The  total  sales  for  the  American 
and  English  editions  probably  much  exceed  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand. 

The  book  contains  nearly  four  hundred  of  the  first  drawings  made  by 
the  now  eminent  artist  A.  B.  Frost,  and  is  interesting  upon  that  account. 

It  has  had  even  larger  popularity  in  Great  Britain  than  in  the  United 
States.  It  has  been  translated  into  several  languages,  and  copies  of  it 
have  gone  literally  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  A  friend  of  the  author's, 
shipwrecked  upon  the  coast  of  Norway  a  few  years  ago,  got  ashore  and 
found  refuge  in  a  fisherman's  lonely  hut.  The  first  thing  he  saw  upon 
entering  the  building  was  a  Swedish  translation  of  "  Out  of  the  Hurly- 
Burly  "  lying  on  a  table,  and  it  made  him  feel  at  home  at  once.  Another 
friend  discovered  the  book  in  the  cabin  of  a  steamer  a  thousand  miles  up 
a  river  in  China.  Cheering  reports  have  floated  in  from  India  respecting 
it,  and  innumerable  tales  have  come  to  the  author  of  the  pleasure  it  has 
afforded  to  invalids  and  to  the  sorrowing,  and  of  the  joy  it  has  given  to 
young  people  all  over  the  world. 

The  demand  for  "  Out  of  the  Hurly-Burly  "  continues.  In  fact,  it  is 
beginning  again  to  increase.  Of  how  many  books  published  in  1874  can 
this  be  said? 

The  new  generation  is  learning,  as  its  predecessors  did,  that  here  is  a 
book  of  hearty  fun  and  genuine  sentiment,  which  contains  no  word  that 
can  give  offense,  and  which  contributes  liberally  to  society's  stock  of 
cheerfulness. 

For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  it  has  supplied  innocent  mirth 
to  a  world  in  which  kindly  humor  is  by  no  means  an  abundant  commodity, 
and  the  promise  is  that  it  will  have  undiminished  benefaction  for  genera- 
tions still  to  come. 

12mo,  Cloth,  extra    .     .    .    .    $1.25. 


HENRY  T.  COATES  &  CO,,  Publishers, 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


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